Virtue is Sin Corrupted
by Shadowed Voices
Summary: Once upon a time there was a boy, a girl, and a child. They were happy, despite the overwhelming odds. And then disaster struck and there was only a boy and a girl. They gave everything to have the child back, if only for a moment.
1. For Sale

Two people. Two boxes. Two deals to make.

Not terribly interesting except that they are on the same crossroads on the same night at the same time. They stand side by side, pale faces young and tear stained. There is a third body, younger, more frail, and without life, clutched to the breast of the girl's breast.

The demon smirks. This might prove to be interesting. Or disastrous. Both sound terribly fun. Hell has been so boring lately; it's just torture, torture, torture, with no aim for creativity.

"Hello, my dears," he chuckles. The boy jumps. The girl doesn't. Fascinating. "Little late for kiddies to be out, isn't it?"

The boy chokes back a sob, his eyes flickering to the girl. She gives him a firm nod. "We - I, please! Bring my son back!" The boy is oddly attached to the little bundle of flesh, especially for a teenager. Probably seventeen. The girl is younger. It's a surprise she survived the birthing process. "My son, please!" He suffers a bout of sobbing, arms wrapped around his middle like a shield.

The demon checks, swiping a thread of power over the dead infant. The amount of power he will need to repair the child's soul is astronomical, much greater than the standard five to ten years he would sell a resurrection. The soul is completely shattered. "Price is high. Ten minutes."

Color leeches from the boy's already sickly face. "You said ten years," he whispers to the girl.

"I said maybe," she hisses in return. Her red rimmed eyes form an impressive glare.

"You get ten minutes with your son, love. Ten long minutes." He blinks at the teenager, eyes fading red and glassy. "Going once-"

"Deal!" And it's sealed with a kiss that leaves the boy stumbling.

The demon reaches into hell, offering what was once the boy's lifespan as payment for the power to drag the child's tattered soul back into existence. Hellfire sears along the ribbons like cauterizing a wound, only, instead of leaving burn flesh and an absence of heat, the fire says. It's necessary. Otherwise the soul will fall apart again and that would break the deal. Pesky things those. Shadows fill in the spaces where the child's soul was incomplete to begin with, soothing and cool.

The child chokes, gasping for breath as life surges back into exhausted limbs. The tiny heart stutters and stops several times, forcing the demon to feed more power into the merger of body and soul. Finally, a bight wail breaks through the night.


	2. An Interesting Proposition

The boy collapses, his soul ripped from his throat by the demon's hound. The girl trembles, her hands frantically stroking the squalling infant. Her eyes, however, remain dry, like she expected this outcome and cried about it long before hand. She takes a deep breath.

"Your deal now, deary," the demon coos. He pouts at her, reaching down through loose dirt to pull out the little tin can the cat bones, and her ID, among other things. He pops it open with a thumb and brushes the fresh flowers to the ground. "One offering per customer, although I suspect you knew that. You seem awfully knowledgeable compared to by usual clientele."

She rolls her shoulders in what might equal a shrug. "Grandfather was a hunter," is her simple answer. "I was the only kid to listen to his stories." And that's impressive. A hunter living long enough to have grand-kids old enough to tell stories to, that is. Not the girl listening.

Her child is still screaming. Luckily this stretch of road is quite deserted or they would be attracting quite a lot of attention. That and a dead body. Hmm. They might have to do something about that. Oh well, not his problem.

"So what's your wish? You want to bring the boy-toy back? Can't say I can." Lie. He could bring the boy back, but she would only get a year out of it. Not a solution he thinks she is looking for. She seems more the dramatic type. Something unconventional. It's why she sold her boyfriend for the baby.

The girl smirks. It's tremulous, but still a smirk. Impressive. "I'm offering my soul."

"That's how these things work darling." Come on girl, get to the point. He doesn't have all night here. There are other deals being offered. He'd like to get a few more in. Not like the boy was going to get him very far, even if it was a quick, power intensive deal. Those are rare and earn quite a few points with the higher ups.

"You shouldn't interrupt," she snaps. "My soul for magic, but not for me. For my son."

She wants what now? The demon blinks a few times, shock overriding his control of the meatsuit for a moment. Magic for a soul is not uncommon, especially after Apocalypse Not. The more people knew about the supernatural the more they wanted that power for themselves. Humans are very predicable in that way. This, however. No one has ever traded their soul to give magic to another being, not even the old witch clans. It's just not done.

But he's a demon. Demons don't follow the rules.

Except for hell's rules. The king seems to have a few pet hunters. Kinda. It's hard to tell with them. And then there's that angel... Thing are really complicated. Ew. Angels.

"That's not how it works, darling." He decides to play it safe. Pissing off the king is not something he really wants to do. Having a demon witch running about without a soul tied to the demon in question.

"Sure it is." Her smirk is stronger now. The child is quieting, finally. Obnoxious thing. Why are babies so loud? He hasn't been around one in centuries. He doesn't miss it. "'sides. I'm not selling to hell. I'm selling to you."

And that, that makes all the difference. A specific soul sold to a specific demon, not a demonic representative of hell. He almost shudders at the implications. The political power a soul of his own could give him. He'd be much closer to the king, not just a lowly crossroads demon. And this girl, oh he knew she was something special.

"To me?"

"For my son. Right now, the instant the deal is over. But-" she hold up a hand to stop him from swooping in. Yes, yes. Magic for the boy. Easy enough. He can do it once she gives him her souls. Won't even need to reach into hell. "You have to take him somewhere safe. Somewhere that he will be loved." This kid is getting expensive.

Maybe. Maybe it's not the girl who is special. Maybe it's the child. A baby. Two parents, teenagers but still, selling themselves to ensure his care and survival. Ensuring he has power thrive in this new world. A hunter's legacy backed by demons and hellfire. Sacrifice. Did he miss something about the child? Nothing feels different about him. Nothing to separate him from any other wriggling, whining brat out there.

Probably.

"Magic for the boy. Take him somewhere safe. You give your soul as immediate payment. Deal?"

She takes an agonizing minute to stare at the red, fleshy creature. "I love you, Genim. Be a good boy. Be strong." The girl passes her baby to the demon. He takes it carefully. No reason to ruin the deal of a lifetime. Not a lifetime. He's a demon. Ugh. Human expressions infect everything.

"Deal." And it is.


	3. Power

There is a baby in his arms. That, this wasn't one of his brightest plans. What does he do with a baby? Besidesgive it magic that is. The power from the girl's soul is only connected to him by a thread. He needs to fulfill at least part of the deal before the connection snaps. So, giving the boy magic, but the second half. How is he going to work that?

Happy. Somewhere the baby will be happy and taken care of. That is not fair. Why did he have to agree to that? Oh yeah, because that is what the girl was offering for her soul. He is thing to have to keep an eye on this kind, mails sure nothing happens that could rescind the deal.

Personal deals have more and less rules that deals with hell. The demon will be responsible for this kid until he has reached adulthood. Clever, clever girl.

He hates the clever ones. They cause so much trouble.

The demon reaches into the well of power, scoping up a handful of pure magic. He contemplates the burning glitter, letting it run a swirl around his fingers. This much will give the boy a spark, just enough to get into and attract trouble with no real way of defending himself. That means more work for the demon. Which is bothersome. He doesn't want to have to stalk the kid. He has better bigger things to do. No, he can check in every couple of months, make sure the brat is happy and healthy. To manage that the kid will need to be able to defend himself from pesky supernatural threats. He pulls a double handful of magic from the well, combining it with what he already extracted and presses it into the child's chest.

Not his best idea. Tonight's just full of those, isn't it.

The magic is unconnected to hell, fueled by the soul of an innocent (although she was obviously not a virgin, that was apparently her only transgression before dealing with demons. Not even petty thievery tarnish her. It is hard to find someone purely innocent these days.) and a desperate mother. It reacts badly with the hellfire and shadow gluing the boy's fragile soul together.

Badly. Understatement. Kind of like calling an elephant small.

The baby starts screaming, shrieking with pain as the comflicting powers wage war inside him. The child's eyes bleed black. His veins light up with white light. The hellfire flares, blinding in its intensity. Then, as fast as it all went wrong, everything settles. The demon is holding a perfectly afterage three-day-old, not the glowing creation of a few minutes ago. As an added bonus, Genim is silent.

Genim. Interesting name for an interesting child.


	4. The Goddess and the Demon

He's had the baby for four days, the power from the girl's soul tugging at his being. It wants him to complete the deal. To take Gemin somewhere safe. Somewhere he can be loved.

Love. Ha. That's ridiculous. Love doesn't exist, not always. Humans are too greed for that. That's why there are demons like him and deals with hell and girls who manipulate their boyfriends into selling their souls for a baby they wouldn't have been able to take care of to begin with. Well, maybe love exists. The boy was certainly attached to the lifeless form of his son, easily manipulated as it were. And the girl, for what reason did she have to give the boy magic? Magic that, ultimately, changed the child into something. Well, something else.

The demon blinks black eyes at the feeding infant. (Learning how to take care of this kid was, challenging. He ended up possessing several daycare personal and a few mothers until he had enough information on when to feed and when to change and when to, let his superiors never learn of this, _play_ with the boy. Like, actually play, not how most demons play. Silly faces and tickling. Sticking his tongue out. Kid needs to be healthy, alright? That's the only reason he's doing this. He's not attached.) The child blinks back, amber eyes flickering black at the edges. Small hands curl around the bottle, tiny feet bracing the end. He looks like a puppy, almost.

He has looked at many families, but none of them have measured up. He wants somewhere that the boy will be family to. People who will take him in and care for him better than a childof thier own blood. Sure, he can change memories, but without the inherent need to protect a child, any child, changing the memories of that person will not cause the desired effect. He won't change personality. Won't risk it wearing off or degrading, which could happen. More work for him now, but less later. And that's the point.

Tonight, after he lulls the baby into sleep, he is going to check out a woman he'd seem earlier in the day. She'd been at the park with a gaggle of toddlers, none of them her own. She handled them with practiced ease, a genuine smile on her face. No wedding ring, but that just means that a failing marriage with not risk the treatment of the child. Less work. Less emotional upheaval. And with the opinion on unmarried women having thair own children having changed these last few centuries, there will be no outside threat to the emotional stability of their relaionship.

No outisde threats at all beyond what nature will throw around. Childcare is not exactly a dangerous profession.

He rocks and hums the baby into an exhausted sleep against his chest, the empty bottle abandoned on the hotel bed. It is tempting to leave the him in the hotel room when he goes to... talk to the woman. But the power tugs at him. Damn that girl! He really does not like the interesting ones anymore. Binding him to this squirming puzzle of hellfire and life. If he ever sees her in hell he is going to enjoy ripping her throat out. It will heal. But still. It's the thought that counts. You know. In eighteen years when he is once again free to di whatever he pleases. Why can't it be like the old days when a child was an adult as soon as it was married and having kids of its own? That wouoould be so much easier.

With an aggrieved sigh, he bundles the baby into the carrier he stole from Walmart three days ago. It has wheels and is therefore so much less inconvenient to travel with than if he just had to carry the brat, or one of those handled things. That plus all the apparently mandatory baby stuff - diapers, babywipes, clothes, bottles, pacifiers, formula because he sure as hell ain't lactating anytime soon. No matter how cute Genim is.

No. Not cute. An unpleasant burden. He is _not_ getting attached. Not at all. And that's final.

He may or may not stalk the woman to her house. After all, it is hard to look like a stalker while pushing a light blue stroller and carrying a tan Winnie the Pooh diaper bag over one shoulder. The suit doesn't help, he supposes. Formal waer and babies don't exactly coincide. Especially in the middle of the day. In a suburban neighborhood.

The demon hangs his head. He hates everything.

The woman smiles and leaves her door open when he pauses by her driveway. It's like she's expecing him. That's interesting.

Crap.

Has he mentioned that he hates interesting people? It's a new thing. He might not have. Just in case, you know. Interesting people suck.

"You might as well come in," she calls when he just stands there. "I'm Abigail Rite. It is a pleasure to finally mee you."

The meatsuit obviously isn't fitting correctly. He should get a new one. Maybe the owner is struggling back control? Is that a good enough excuse to leave suddenly and perhaps, maybe, forget Genim in the woman's driveway? It seems like a good plan to him.

The power disagrees. Stupid girl.

Abigail laughs at him. He hates her too.

Somehow, though, he winds up seated at her kitchen table, water (from a sealed bottle, he's not stupid.) and a peanut butter cookie on a napkin in front of him. Abigail is cooing at Genim. The boy blinks up at her with focused (odd because aren't babies a little nearsighted?) eyes before they bleed black entirely. She doesn't seem started or worried, just coos again, whispering how pretty his eyes are.

Which ones, the demon wonders, but Abigail is turning to face him. "He's cuter than I expected. For a halfling, I mean. I heard that you would be stopping by with his, but I thought he would be a little more demonic." She makes it sound like demons are hideous in thier true forms. He can't begrudge her that. They are. It sis one of the reasons demons possess humans. Far more aesthetically pleasing, especially to a demon's eye. Hell is not all sunshine and butterflies, alright?

"Halfling?" he asks instead. It is nit the question he wants to ask - how she knew they were coming - but he thinks this one is more likely to be answered. Getting answers out of people is a lot harder when you cannot just torture them for information. Annoying.

She laughs. People shouldn't laugh around demons. It is not normal. It is interesting. Interesting is a bad thing. "Yes. The magic you gave him combined with the hellfire in an interesting pattern. It is human magic, powerful, sacrificial, human magic. And hellfire is anything but."

He knows that part. The baby fireworks in the crossroads alerted him to the fact that the two different magics did not get along. But they settled. And the kid isn't a demon.

"No, but you haven't touched his soul since he changed." And apparently he is talking out lmoud while thinking. Great. "Genim is a halfling. An artificial halfling born in death and fire." She sounds like she is repeating something, so he tunes her out. Instead he focuses on the pulse of the baby's soul, the way it flickers on the edge of his consciousness.

It has changed. No longer is it the fragile, torn, abomination of a human soul pieced together with strips if hell, but a masterpiece of flame. It darts and flares in its cage of light and dark, the shadows filling every crevice while pure power spills into the child's very blood. It is beautiful. Exquisite. Shifting and writhing in an endless show.

"There is no need to change my memories of him," Abigail is saying. He snakes a sliver of attention in her direction. "I will just need the paperwork delivered in the next week, but I am moving tomorrow."

For the first time he actually notices the house. It is bare except for the tablein the kitchen with its single folding chair and a pan on the stove. A few boxes of Chinese takeout fill a lone garbage can in the corner.

"Done," he says instead of his usually deal. It sounds odd on his borrowed tongue, but the power does not protest.

The demon frowns, but leaves without Genim in tow.


	5. Law

John has been a deputy for two years when the woman and her four-year-old son wander into town. They buy the house across the street from old Mr. McGuire and his bazillion of cats, the one nobody wants. The railing on the front steps is wobbly. Some of the porch is rotted. The front door doesn't have a lock. Half the lights don't work after the electrical storm a few years back. No one wants to talk about the plumbing. Or the heating. Or the fact that the top three upstairs windows are shattered. That's not even mentioning the cosmetic damage - peeling paint on the outside, torn wallpaper, water damage, and a weird blue-ish smear on the cracked kitchen linoleum that never washes off, just to name a few. It's not a place for a single mother with a young son. Maybe if the boy was several years older, but -

McGuire calls the station when he catches the boy picking forget-me-nots in the weeds of his front yard. (McGuire calls the station whenever something inconveniences him, like the stray dog that likes to bark at his cats and the teenagers that roar down the street at three in the morning. The station has a can with sticks on the sheriff's desk for deciding who goes out this time. John was the unfortunate deputy whose name got picked.)

John ambles down the street, the engine of his cruiser purring and almost idle despite the face that the car is still moving. He does not like dealing with McGuire. He especially does not like dealing with McGuire when there are only forty-five minutes until he is off shift. So he takes his time getting there, lengthening a ten minute drive into a fifteen minute one, but nothing long enough to actually seem like he is stalling. Besides, when McGuire said he caught a thief it could be anything from a rabbit chewing on his lettuce or a fully trained ninja pilfering the leftovers in his fridge. His tone would be the same either way: gruff, annoyed, and brief.

The deputy sighs, slips out of his car, and knocks on the blue and white door. The person who opens the door is not Mr. McGuire.

Mr. McGuire is old, older than anyone else in the town, including the little old lady in Beacon Hills Hospital who is approaching her eighty-third birthday and swears up and down that McGuire babysat her when she was little. McGuire refuses to say anything to contradicting her, but he also refuses to tall his age to anyone. He's balding with a thin gray mustache hovering like a caterpillar above his thin, pale lips. His face is gaunt. Sometimes, when he is very angry, two spots of color will appear high on his cheek and his eyes, brown, will become bloodshot. John has only seen him like that once, when one of the "rotten teenagers, no respect for anyone these days" accidentally stepped on the tail of one of his cats. That had been John's first call to the McGuire place.

But where Mr. McGuire is tall, thin, and bears a startling resemblance to a scarecrow with the clothes he wears, the person opening the door is not. Not tall and not a scarecrow, that is, although he is rather thin. No, this is a child. A small, brown haired child with amber eyes and a blinding grin that he manages to keep even while babble at top speed in a language John has never heard. Perhaps several languages, because there might be some Spanish mixed in there, maybe some German, but why is there a child? Mr. McGuire hates children of any shape and size. (There is a joke going around since before John moved into town with his parents when he was thirteen. Old Man McGuire doesn't discriminate, he hates everyone equally.)

"Hello?" John says when it looks like the child might actually pause for breath. The child nods and grins, holding out a small hand. The deputy shakes with with all the seriousness of meeting the president or some foreign dignitary, neither of which he has ever done, but the boy gets a kick out of it, giggling and babbling again. Another breath and John sneaks in, "I'm looking for Mr. McGuire. Is he home?"

"Sí! Sí!" And then the language changes and John can, once again, understand nothing. But the child grabs his hand again and drags him further into the house, past the living room and into the kitchen. Mr. McGuire is folded at the circular table pushed into the corner by the windows. His head in cradled in his hands. His shoulders are hunched. His elbows are supported by the grainy surface of the table. All in all, he looks exhausted. Which, if he's had this kid for the fifteen minutes it took John to get here, is reasonable.

McGuire glares with one eye. "I thought his parent couldn't be too far behind when I called ye. He was pickin' flowers in my yard. Don't much mind that, but there's some foxglove in there. Other poisonous things too. But I haven't seen nothing in the form of a reasonable adult since I pulled him inside. And the kid won't speak English. Understands it perfectly fine though." His voice cuts across the chatter. The boy blinks at them with large eyes.

John turns to look at the kid by his side. "How about it, then, eh kiddo? What's your name?"

"Me llamo?" Spanish again. John can understand that. Although my the kid won't speak English is a mystery. But the boy is frowning, like he is trying to remember something. His mouth forms a few silent words in between biting his lip. "Stiles," turns out to be the final decision. McGuire snorts in disbelief.

John has to agree. Stiles does not sound like a real name. However, " Alright then Stiles. What's your mom's name?" Sometimes itis easier to go along with the child. Cooperation gets cooperation. Or something like that.

Apparently, this question is more easily answered. "Abigail." And then the boy has to stop and think again, a frown marring the tiny forehead. "Sí, Abigail." Which makes John wonder. Dotheir names change often enoughthat it is hard to remember which one they are using now? "Donde -" the kid starts again before switching languages. Something in the string of syllables might be a name, but not one John recognizes.

"Kiddo, please will you speak English? We can't understand you." He's not begging.

An impish smile. "No." Which could be any number of languages. Great.


	6. The Pretty Thing

Abigail Rite, currently Abigail Price, has been Genim's mother, caregiver, and guardian for four, almost five years. In that time they have had to move and change identities twelve times. The first time was because some stray Hunter caught wind of Genim's guard demon and flipped a little because demons are way above the average Hunter's pay grade. Very few Hunters purposefully go after demons, although she has heard rumors of some John Winchester nut bent on revenge and ruining the lives of his sons. Really, Abigail thinks he must be a very cheery man.

Honestly, revenge gets no one anywhere. Theman should focus on raising his kids right.

The second move was a few months after the first when Genim accidentally flashed demon eyes at a parent in the park. She can't blame him, not at a few months old and unable to control the change. They still has to move. Abigail has yet to come up with a reasonable excuse for Genim's eyes. Actually, most of their moves were the cause of baby Genim being unable ti control his eyes. Or that one time when the two-year-old flew candy across the room during a neighborhood get together. Ah, the guard demon had been so pleased when he had to come and modify memories.

Not really. He kept muttering about interesting people. Abigail found it endlessly amusing.

After that, Abigail started teaching the toddler control. If he could hold the demon eyes for an hour right before bed, she read two stories. If he can go from breakfast to dinner without flashing the eyes, he recieved an ice cream instead of a popsicle if he finished his dinner. For incentive worked really well with toddler Genim; she ended up using it when training the child's telekinesis. If he didn't want cheerios, he had to pull the other breakfast food from the cupboard.

Maybe not the best parenting, but it worked for them. It still does.

Except when Genim decides to wander off.

The habit started shortly after the halfling's third birthday when they were living out in Brazil. At barely six the the morning he had gotten out of bed, left the house, and was found in town several hours later speaking fractured Romanian at a snake. It had only gotten worse from there. In Germany a few month later he had disappeared for most of a day only to turn up in an abandoned church the towns over.

Now when he wanders off, Abigail wonders if she should call the police or just wait until he rattles of her phone number at some local.

It shouldn't surprise her when a police cruiser meanders into her neighbor's driveway. The kid can't have been gone too long. His playroom (it woud be his bedroom, but Genim barely sleeps nowadays and when he does he refuses actual beds. The demon says he has too much energy to contain within his mortal skin, which, obvious, he's four. He'll spend spend most of a week awake and hyper and then the next two days split between stuffing his face and crashing into a food coma.) has only been quiet for an hour, maybe two. Hw much trouble can a small boy get into in such a small period of time?

Apparently enough to summon the police. This is Genim she is talking about. Stiles. First and last time she is letting her little halfling pick his own name.

Abigail heaves herself out of her squishy chair with a put upon sigh. Her books lays abandoned on the side table, spread out flat and spine cracked from many rereadings. It is one of her favorites. Historical nonfiction. Nothing supernatural in it at all. She needs a little something normal in her life from time to time.

She crosses her yard at a sedate pace and notes that her neighbor has an impressive collection of flowers growing in his front garden. That is probably the reason why Genim decided to escape. He loves flowers. All flowers. One of the first things she had to teach him was not to put the flowers in his mouth, no, she doesn't care if they taste good, until you learn to tell what is poisonous I don't want to see a single non-food item near your mouth. Period. So of course Genim memorized an half of the library's collection on flora and fauna. That had benn an interesting week.

Genim opens the door before she can knock wearing a shit-eating grin and rambling at her in Russian. Where did he learn Russian? They've never been to Russia. She doesn't speak Russian.

"English, Stiles," Abigail orders, but it does nothing to deter the flow of syllables. No, he just switches between French and Italian, telling her all about how nice Mr. McGuire is and how the flowers love him, they must because the rosemary is really very bright for this time of year and did she see the daffodils because he wants to take some home, but what he was really after was the forgetmenots, those are her favorites, right, he thought those were her favorites, but Mr. McGuire didn't like him picking the flowers and then this nice man came to visit and he asked some questions about them that he answered correctly, he remembered that he is Stiles because that is a great name and that she is Abigail and his mommy even though the demon says not really but he still loves her anyway -

By this point the deputy and Mr. McGuire have gathered by the front door and the three of them are staring down at Stiles. The little boy has yet to take a single breath, which is quite impressive but boardering on inhuman. Abigail presses a finger o his lips, shushing him.

"Let the grownups talk, baby," she says and Genim closes his mouth, eyes wide and brown. "I'm very sorry about the inconvenience, Mr. McGuire. You as well, officer -?"

The deputy seems to startle out of a dase, skaing his head to clear the distraction. "Oh! Um,, I'm John. John Stalinski." He holds out a hand which she takes with a smile. Genim is watching them with a mischievous gleam in his eye. "It's nice to meet you."

"Abigail Price. My pleasure."

Genim jumps in with something about tulips that Abigail barely catches the end of before he switches to - is that Latin? - and the deputy ushers them all inside to Mr. McGuire's table.

"Ms. Price -"

"Abigail." A smile, quick and impish, forms across her face. "Please. I insist."

The deputy flushes. Mr. McGuire rolls his eyes. "Abigail. Mr. McGuire found your son in his garden almost half an hour ago. It's not safe for a child his age to be wandering around alone."

"I know. It's a recent thing with him." That earns an incredulous look from the four-year-old, but it's not like she can teach him not to lie. Their entire lives are based on lies, one after the other, and each new house comes with a new set. "I've put locks on all the windows and doors" truth "but he is still getting out, as you can tell."

Something passes through Stalinski's eyes. "I could, um, maybe come over at some point. You know. Check to see if they are all, er, working properly?" It is definitely more of a question than he intended it to be. The flush spreads from his cheeks to his ears and down his neck. Abigail smirks. It's been a while since she had the time to date. Between child-rearing and training a tiny halfling to be more human than demon she has barely had time to breathe.

"That would be very kind of you, John," she purrs.

Mr. McGuire thunks his head down on the table startling a burst of giggles from Genim. "Great. Have fun. Now get out of my house!"


	7. Godfather

John Stilinski has every friday and saturday off. Before Abigail and Stiles he spent those two days sprawled across his couch watching baseball or football, depending on the season. Now, sometimes, he will wander downstairs at the crack of noon and find Stiles camped out in a pile of blankets and pillows in the middle of his living room floor, some cartoon or other holding the child's interest. At least until he notices John is there. Then he is demanding pancakes with bacon and cinnamon sugar syrup while John is left to call Abigail and wonder how the four-year-old got all the way across town.

He starts keeping pancake mix and syrup in the house, but that's just a coincidence. He and Abigail don't start dating until the second month of Stiles doing this.

So Fridays become breakfast days with Stiles and, the longer John and Abigail date, eventual just become John and Stiles days because Abigail needs sleep. John starts taking the boy to the park or the movies and toys begin to migrate from the Price house to the Stilinski house. A bed, twin, makes its way upstairs into the unused second bedroom complete with batman sheets for when Stiles inevitably starts spending the night.

Saturdays are date night as Saturdays are usually the day when Stiles will crash and be dead to the world for most of twenty-four hours. The first time John noticed this was a Friday night, the second Stiles spent the night. His girlfriend's son had been rambling on about dinosaurs, thankfully in English, when he stumbled over a word and almost faceplanted into the kitchen table. A little surprised, John had called Abigail but she just laughed and said to put him to bed, she would be there in the morning. After a minor freakout session courtesy of the young deputy when Stiles would not wake up the next morning for breakfast, John finally received an explanation. It didn't make sense, but it was an explanation. And with that Saturdays became date nights over at the Price house.

To Make things easier, John began driving the unconscious boy over. Saves on gas.

( At the station, John's coworkers tease him about practically adopting this kid. They have only met Stiles a few times, and Abigail less, because the boy has a habit of showing up at the end of his shift - seriously, how does this kid get across town without anyone stopping him? - with a wide grin and several words in a multitude of languages, the vast majority of which John can barely understand. They laugh because John only sighs and pullls the kid into a hug and takes him home. John's home. Then the Price house.

Or, when his friends come over after work for a couple of beers and crappy tv, they mock him about the toys scattered everywhere. Legos. Trucks. The occasional blanket fort. All perfectly normal signs of a child living in the house. But john is not a father. Nor has he showed much interest in children before. But there are more signs of child than girlfriend in John's life. Which is a little depressing, but he likes the hyperactive kid, so whatever.)

Today is Wednesday.

"Hi hi! John!" Stiles shouts over the quiet murmur of on duty officers. A few look up and smile or frown into their coffee because Stiles' energy effects people one of two ways usually. John grins over at him, waving the kid over to his desk.

The little boy hops, literally hops, around desks and people, his small arms flailing as he tries to keep his feet pressed together. Moslt, he fails, but the concentrated frown on his face is too adorable. Even the sheriff, gumpy and strict, is known to smile every once and a while when presented with a completely serious Stiles doing something rediculous.

Somehow, despite a lack of coordination and a general disagreement with gravity, Stiles makes it to John without knocking anything over. A spattering of applause scatters around the collected officers.

"Hello, kiddo," John greets him. Stiles grins, thowing his arms around the deputy's neck ina choking hug. The kid really is deceptively strong. "Easy. How's your day been?"

"Bestest awesome! I met a boy t'ay, his name's Scott, and he likes animals so we decided that we we get older we're gunna turn into animals, but he said I should be a squirrel because I remind him of a squirrel he saw the other day, but I think squirrels are boring. I wanna be a tiger, cuz they're cooland have stripes and stripes sounds like Stiles and that's my name and my name is cool, I like my name. Scott wants to be a penguin, which, I guess that'd be okay, maybe, but tigers are cooler, right? Squirrels are boing. Mama wants to be a bird, a um, a, they're back and like shiny things and Mama likes shiny things, like a magpie. Right? What d'ya wanna be? As long as it's not a squirrel.

"But I met Scott at the hospital cuz both me and Mama had doctor 'pointments. Scott was there cuz his mom's a nurse and she is really cool, not as cool as Mama or Batman though. Her name's M'lissa and she let me'n'Scott play behind her desk while Mama talked to her fancy doctor, which was nice cuz I usually have to be with Mama while she talks to the fancy doctors and they are really really boring so I don't lke them, not one bit, but I like M'lissa. Scott has cars so we played cars after I got my shot, it didn't even hurt! The doctor sys I was real brave for not crying. So did Scott, cuz Scott said he cried when he got the shot, but it is just a little needle, just a poke, I had to get stitches once when I fell and cut my hand, that hurt, but the doctor then, not a doctor here, she spoke Spanish, gave me a shot and it stopped hurting when she had to sew my hand closed. So shots are good and don't hurt.

"I had to get a shot cuz we went to talk to the school people, which was boring, and they had me take a couple tests, which was more fun, and show them how good I can read, which is awesome, by the way, I read awesomely, and to see if i could right, but duh, it's not like writing is hard, except sometimes the pencil is hard to hold do I can't write fast or pretty like Mama,but I'm gunna learn, cuz I wanna be just like Mama. The teacher people said I did awesome on the things, and want me to be in second grade, but Mama says I'm too little for second grade, which I'm not. I'm a big boy, I'm almost five, but she said and I gots to do what Mama says or we get in trouble. Only, the teacher people didn't care that I can speak a lotta languages. English is boring sometimes and I can't say what I want cuz the words don't always work. So Mama says I gots to be in first grade, which boring, but Scott said he's starting first grade and maybe we'll be in the same class, that'd be cool.

"Oh! Oops. I forgot, Mama said she wanted me to stay home t'ay cuz Silas is coming over to talk about dogs or something. Have you met Silas? He's the awesomest. He taught me how to talk in latsa different languages like Latin and Russian and he says next he's gunna teach me old Greek and maybe normal Greek too, but I forgot he was coming over t'ay. He doesn't care if I'm not there all the time or if I wander off and he stays up with me lots when he can stay for a long time, says sometimes Mama needs sleep cuz she gets tired and isn't like me, not always, not mostly, cuz I don't get sick. But Mama says she's not sick, so maybe Silas can be wrong?"

In the background, John can hear one of his coworkers ask, " Does that kid ever breathe?" and realizes that James hasn't been in when Stiles wanders in. They usually work opposite shifts, but James is covering for Andy today as she just started maternity leave.

Someone else laughs quietly and explains, "That's John's girlfriend's son, but we see him more often than her. Hell, kid even spends the night at John's place."

"We're not sure if they're going to get married or if John's just going to adopt the kid."

John doesn't think they know he can hear them.

Stiles trails off into giggles over something Scott did while pretending to be a dinosaur, so the deputy takes the break to state, "I'd best get you home then." The kid just nods and continues his rant about Scott and the boy's apparent inability to correctly impersonate a velociraptor. Or something. John has mostly tuned him out by now, concentrating on packing up his stuff so that he can leave.

It is far easier getting Stiles out of the station. Desk orderly, John is able to pick him up and carry him outside to the car, words switching away from English and into some unknown language. The drive to Abigail's house is filled with something smooth and worn sounding, which is a little strange coming from a hyper, little boy voice.

A man opens the front door, his shirt partially unbottoned and tie undone. His hair is a mess. He leans against the door frame like he owns the place, like John knocked on the door to the wrong house and interrupted the man's makeout session or something. The smirk on his face does nothing to disprove John's thoughts.

"Can I help you?" And he even has an accent, something Southern. Luckily, Stiles is there to prevent John fromsaying anything stupid.

The little boy leaps at the man with a cry of joy, arms raised and expecting to be caught. The man, of course, catches him, pulling Stiles into a hug. He doesn't complain about the too tight arms around his neck or the pointy feet kicking precariously close o his groin. He just, kisses Stiles on the forehead, a gentle smiles on his face, and John realizes that they could be father and son.

That settles like a fist in the face.

"Silas!" Stiles squeels. "You're here! You're here! You're here! You haven't visited in ten years! More than ten. I bet it was a hundred! Yeah. A hundred. You've been gone for a hundred years and you didn't even write!" He pouts dramatically, bracing his knees on the man's - Silas? His father? - stomach so he can lean back and cross his arms. "For-ev-er."

The man raises a blonde, perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "I haven't seen you in a month. Hardly ling enough to be forever. Or even a hundred years."

"But it's long enough to be ten." And really? This conversation just got weird because Silas does not refute the boy's statement, just smirks a little, like he has a secret.

Then, " You must be John Stilinski - a deputy, am I correct?" Silas shifts Stiles to his hip so that he can hold a hand out for John to shake.

"Yes, um, sorry," John replies after a long, awkward moment of staring at manicured nails. He is a little shocked at being addressed by name.

" John! John! John!" Stiles shouts, accidentally kicking the blonde. "This is Silas! Isn't he the awsomest?!"

"Silas?" Abigail sounds incredulous. She pulls the door open with one hand, the other covering her eyes as she shakes her head. John is pleased to see that she is wearing jeans and a t-shirt, her hair up in a neat bun, but wet,like she just goy out of the shower. Not like she and Silas had been...involved. "Please tell me you didn't."

An unrepentant grin flitters across rosy lips. "No can do," he drawls.

"Go to hell."

And why are they swearing in front of a four-year-old? But the man and boy ate giggling madly, like Abigail said the funniest thing

Then Abigail looks up. "Oh my god, Silas! What are you wearing?!"

Perhaps belatedly, John notices that Silas is not wearing pasts as he had first assumed, rather, he is wearing black boxers.

"Clothes."

"Are you trying to ruin my relationship?" the brunette woman snaps. Frustration colors her words. After a second of deep breathing she looks uo again, a light in her eyes that was previously not there. The man takes a sudden step away, his back hitting the side of the house. "John." And that is a tone John never wants to hears directed at his ever again even if Abigail's eyes are focused on Silas. "I would like you to meet Silas Christiansen, Stiles' _godfather._"

"I hate you," Silas Christiansen mutters under Stiles' loud cackling.

John is just really confused.


	8. An Interlude

Abigail kisses John goodbye, thanking him for bringing Stiles over, again. Really, she told the boy to stay home, but he always gets away from her. John is such a good boyfriend for caring so much about him. She is also so sorry about Silas. He can be such a pain sometimes. He probably only wanted to make sure that Stiles would be okay, he's so protective.

If John leaves slightly dazed, she doesn't mention it, but the demon scoffs, eyes flickering black to disguise the fact that he's rolling them. It doesn't work. Once Abigail is close enough she smacks him on the back of the head, which _ow_. So ungrateful. How did she make that hurt, anyway? But still, human romance. He's been able to escape it for centuries, not including the time he spends in hell brushing up on his torturing skills or eavesdropping on the bosses to see when, exactly, they are planning their little "apocalypse" thingy. Azazel is such a drama queen, seriously.

An earth run by demons? _Boring._ Humans are far more fun, not to mention interesting. Bah. There's that word again. Interesting. Every time one of the humans he is connected to (against his will, he might add) does something interesting it comes back to bite him in the ass. Like earlier, for instance.

"Christiansen? Godfather?!" he growls out. As a demon he can do a pretty authentic growl. Maybe not a good as a wolf, but definitely and recognizably inhuman. Which is good, because he isn't human.

Abigail smirks at him. The demon is fairly certain she has never looked at John that way. "You're the one who decided to show up looking like that in front of my new boyfriend. Which, why?"

A ripple of amusement. A very toothy grin. "I wanted to see how he'd react. Jealousy is not a good sign, especially if you're going to let him so close to Genim." The power Genim's birth mother gave him has long since settled, not even twitching with the introduction of the deputy added into the picture. But this is the first man Abigail has dated since acquiring a son. The demon has a right to be... worried. Not for the boy. Never for the boy. But just that the deal might be negated should Genim get hurt by this human man. That's it.

"Ha! You think I'm the one who started this relationship?' Her laughter is without amusement. "Your _godson_ is the one continuously showing up at John's house or his work, and besides! John is a police officer! Police! He's not going to hurt a four-year-old, Silas!" Her pause sounds ominous after the yelling. He resists the urge to cower into the couch cushions. He is a very powerful demon. She is human. She can't hurt him. "Silas. Interesting name that. Sounds a bit like Stiles, don't you think?"

Oops.

"You never asked for my name." It's a poor counter. Very poor, and she laughs at it.

"You never stayed long enough for my to need to." Point. Abigail three, demon one. This conversation is not going well.

"Well, it's Silas. Not Silas Christiansen, just Silas." Genim asked several month before moving to Beacon Hills what the demon's name was. Silas is the only part he remembers from being human. It's not much considering that he suspects his human name to be a lot longer than just Silas, be he isn't going to be like the other demons (Crowley. Azazel.) who choose some pretentious demonic sounding name. Nope. Nope. Not his thing. He will stick with Silas, thanks.

Although he wasn't expecting Genim to choose a name based on his. It's almost sweet. Not that he cares.

Abigail sighs. "I needed some reason why it would seen Stiles is named after you. You aren't his father, aren't around enough. I am also never going to even pretend to have had sex with you. So a friend, a close friend. Genim knows you. Godfather. Christiansen was just to piss you off."

She grins and he takes the opportunity to vanish.

Wasn't he supposed to warn her about the wolves in the area? Oh well. She'll figure it out.


	9. First Day of First Grade

Scott knows that it is almost time to side down, but he is too excited,too hyper to think about sitting right now. His new friend is is his class, his mom said so, and Stiles is awesome. Beyond awesome. And really smart too because Stiles is only five, just turned five, and Scott turned five a long time ago, months. So Stiles has to be really smart for them to be in the same grade. He has to be, like, Lydia smart. Although, now that Scott thinks about it, he has no idea how old Lydia actually is. But still. Lydia is a girl and girls are icky and totally not as cool as his new friend.

But Stiles is going to be late if he doesn't show up soon.

"Scott," the teacher calls and by the tone of her voice it is not the first time. "It is time to sit down now."

Scott looks around curiously, blinking thoughs out of large brown eyes. Most of the other kids are already sitting in their groups. A blush flares over his face. Scott doesn't really lke standing out. And yet -

"But Stiles isn't here!" He tries to explain him unwillingness to follow her directions. The look on her face is the same one his mom gets when he tries to get out of eating vegetables. Annoyed. Demanding. Amused.

A few kids laugh. "What's a stiles?" Jason snickers.

Jason was in Scott's class last year. He is the type of kid who picks on the smaller kids, which unfortunately, includes Scott. He is always poking and pinching and hitting when the teachers aren't watching, a mean word always ready on his tongue. He likes to hurt, but smiles pretty when the grownups are looking.

"My friend," Scott says because his mom keeps telling him to anwser questions the first time he is asked and Jason hasn't done anything. Yet. There is always a yet.

"S'he imaginary?" And there is the yet.

Before his dad left a month ago he told Scott how to deal with people like Jason. If they hit you, hit back harder. Right now hitting first seems like a great idea as the teacher's rebuke falls on deaf ears. But Jason is to far away to hit easily.

"Is not!" His mom doesn't think he listens when he plays under her desk at the hospital. Grownup talk is boring after all, especially is a hospital. But he does listen. And he listened when Jason's mom came in to talk to his mom the other week. "You still wet the bed! Baby!"

"Scott McCall!" The teacher is shouting now, angry. Jason looks close to tears as the other kids laugh.

This is how Stiles Price began the school year, with an enemy and a best friend willing to defend him to the point of the dreaded timeout chair. Amusingly, this all happened without him being present. In fact, Stiles arrived half an hour late to class, an exhausted looking deputy trailing his hyper, bouncing steps into the classroom.

"Sorry we're so late," Scott hears from his position facing the wall. When he thinks the teacher isn't looking he sneaks a wave to the grinning Stiles. "Stiles decided that this morning was a great time to wander around in the woods. It took a bit to find him. I'd keep a close eye on him if you don't want him to disappear."

The teacher casts Stiles a wary look but waves the deputy from the room. She gestures both Scott and Stiles to their desks which are, much to thier disappointment, on opposite sides of the room.

Jason punches Stiles in the face at recess, blackening his eye into an impressive shade of red purple.

Scott is a little confused about the incident. Not that Jason hit Stiles. No. Stiles is small and younger than Jason by almost two years and as such is the perfect target for the bully. Scott is confused about Stiles' reaction to the... fight.

Boys don't cry. It was something his father said often when Scott would fall and scrape his knee or his hands while playing and run into the house crying because it _hurt._ Why shouldn't he cry? But boys don't cry. His mom says it's okay to cry if he needs to, he cried when he found out his father wasn't coming back, but he tries not to. Maybe if he's good enough, is a strong boy, his father will return.

When Jason hit Stiles, he hit him hard. The little boy fell under the force of the blow, skinning his elbow on the blacktop. Other than that, there seemed to be no reaction, just a little confused blinking. Then Stiles caught Scott's eye, a wicked, too wide grin stealing over his small face for a fraction of a second, and started crying. Not the little crying of getting hurt on the playground, but great heaving sobs of a terrible injury. Like when Scott broke his arm last year, the only time his father didn't reprimand him for crying.

Jason didn't know what to do. All his other victims were too proud to start crying, to tell a teacher for fear of being labeled a tattle tale. Being a tattle tale is almost as bad as having cooties. Almost, because cooties are contagious. But Stiles' screaming as attracted the attention of several teachers, all of whom were glaring at Jason.

Perhaps the best part of it is that Jason got sent home with a _note_ for his mom.

Scott is fairly certain that people don't smile when they get hit. Getting hit hurts. It's not a fun thing. So why did Stiles smile? Did he know that Jason would get sent home?

" Didn't that hurt?" Scott asks at lunch when the two of them are crowded in front of the mirror in the boy's bathroom. Stiles is poking at the bruising around his eye with curious fingers.

"Nope nope!" Is the answer. "Didn't hurt any, but you know what does? Salt. Salt sucks except when it tastes good in food, like french fries, but I can't have too many else it burns. I got a blister on my tongue once from eating too many french fries and my throat hurt for days but I was fine after. It was kinda like the flu, y'know, get sick for a couple of days and then it's all over, but you don't even have a cool scar to show for being miserable for days and days. Not fair, but mama says that's the flu."

Sometimes, even when Stiles is speaking English and slowly enough to be understood by normal people, he still doesn't make any sense. Scott doesn't get it because Stiles uses big words and what does salt have to do with the flu anyway?

"Oh. Cool."

The peace in first grade lasts until the end of lunch.

It's an accident. Really. It isn't even Scott's accident. Someone pushed him while running and he fell, landing on his best friend's brand new Batman lunchbox. It is a horrible, terrible offense to a budding friendship and Stiles would be within his best friend rights to revokes Scott's best friend status. Because the Batman lunchbox is broken, cracked straight down the middle.

Stiles starts yelling in something that isn't English, it can't be because Scott doesn't understand anything his friend is saying. It looks like he is yelling at Scott while at the same time trying to see if he is okay. Only, by this time Scott is tired. It's been a long day and his friend is yelling at him and his hand hurts where he caught himself on the lunchbox. It is all a bit too much. He starts crying. He is, after all, only six, and he can choose not to be a big boy on occasion.

"What happened this time?" The teacher sounds tired too.

"Stiles called Scott a potato!"

Which is apparently the last straw, especially since Stiles refuses, loudly and in Not English. She calles his mother.

Abigail Price receives five calls from the school that week. They go something like this:

"Your son called another student a potato and made him cry."

"Your son is yelling at other students in different languages and refuses to speak English during class."

"As much as we encourage outside learning activities, please instruct your son that all class and homework must be completed in English, as I cannot read Greek."

"Mrs. Price, please come collect your son from the office."

"Mrs. Price? We can't find your son."


	10. Genim

**WARNINGS**: Mostly accidental self harm. References to child abuse. Intense images of Hell. Gore.

* * *

His room at John's house is not unfamiliar (he's been sleeping in it for months), but it is strange for this to be his only room in his only house. Just after Christmas Abigail and John decided to move in together, selling the little house across from Mr. McGuire and his flowers in favor of John's more up-to-date abode, but Genim still has to pause every night in the doorway to stare at his bed and the walls and think, 'This is mine. This is where we live. This is forever.'

It's not that Genim doesn't like John or his (their) house, but this _forever_ thing is a foreign concept. There has never been a _forever_ before Beacon Hills, no permanence in location, and maybe that was what he was craving when he first met John (he's been calling him Daddy since the move) and decided that this here was going to stick. He wants to stay, wants to be still. And he has worked so hard to bring John and Abigail together. Because he is old enough to settle and young enough to want to. It has been more than a year (two in June) since they first arrived, him and Abigail.

Genim doesn't want to leave.

This doesn't stop the running.

Most nights, late at night after Abigail and John are in bed and everything is quiet, quiet, quiet, Genim can hear a song just at the edge of his thoughts, and, further out, the clash of immaterial swords. There is screaming, soaring violins and flutes that refuse to harmonize, tortured and high, angry, hateful. Beneath that, the deep vibration of large drums, deep as thunder, a steady beat to accompany the painful not-chords of metal on stone, grinding, chirping leaps of piano bars and blood-slicked chains. Some nights it is faster, a half-skip ahead of where it should be. It burns without heat, without light, without fire. It's just dark and cold and burning, always burning, digging into his skin until the screaming echoes, itching in his veins just under the surface.

If only he could get to them. Make it stop. Tear everything out, rip into his skin with blunted nails until it is gone, rending meat from bone, stripping muscle and crushing organs until there is nothing left but ash and bone lit afire.

It's why he slips out the window once John's soul simmers into something resembling sleep. It's why he runs. He's desperate for some noise, something to drown out the song before he drowns instead.

Genim never has a plan when he leaves, just drops to the ground and lets his magic expand, filling him from the inside out (he's never aware of it, but his veins trace a glowing labyrinth under his skin and his eyes slide flat, glittering black) until all he can think about is the next slap of his feet on concrete and the in-out rasp of breath. He runs and runs and runs as far and as fast as he can, not stopping until he collapses, panting, unable to pull air to his lungs, heart trying to escape his heaving chest in frantic staccato waves.

He falls hard on hands and knees, having exhausted both body and mind at the same level. Always he is on the boarder between the Hale property and the rest of Beacon Hills, so deep and lost in the still, calm, presence of forest and nature that the song is lifted away and he can sleep.

Abigail doesn't ask where he was when he stumbles through the front door covered in dirt and scratches and blood (his own). She just cleans him up, wiping the scrapes with rubbing alcohol and a towel before she lets him get dressed for school.

School. School is hard. Not in the sense of work, which, to him, is way too easy and the only interesting thing about it is practicing his Greek because then the letters are different and he has to concentrate on the translation (be it from English to Greek or English to Russian to Persian to Latin to Greek), how to choose the correct form of the word and how it goes in the sentence. Really, English sucks. But scribbling Greek into the margins of his workbooks keeps his attention where it should be, on class, on the present (not the whining hum of the song he can hear because this is a bad day and it is so loud). The teacher does not appear to agree with him. There have been monthly calls home about his unwillingness to speak or write in English regularly. Notes are weekly episodes.

Really. Not his fault. English is boring and stupid and not his favorite language. No one seems to understand this but him.

It's the rest of school that is bothersome, tiring. There is the constant glow-buzz-hum-happy-bright-angry-excited-hiss-fizzle static in his mind from the children, other children, so many other children, that drowns out the song (on most days), but is still migraine inducing after six hours of constant exposure unless he gets up and moves. And teachers do not like that, apparently. They (she) say he is disrupting class and disturbing the other students, but it is not like they were paying much attention anyway. That's why the same lesson has to be repeated six or seven times before it actually sticks in their dull little minds. But no, he has to sit at the desk and not fiddle with his pencil and speak in English all day and not write in Greek and listen while he teacher goes over the same lesson again and even though he already knows this! He knew it ages ago!

Worse is when the teacher stares at the scratches, bright red on his arms and creeping out from under the collar of his shirt, the way some of them are scabbed over because last night was bad and, oops, he made himself bleed. (He might not feel injuries the same as if he was fully human, but they still take a long while to heal. Especially when he is the cause of the wounds. The ones from the trees and bushes will be gone in a day or so.)

"Stiles?" Genim glances up from his absent contemplation of several Greek characters that he had been in the process of making dance across the paper. His teacher is crouched by his seat (on the opposite side of the room from Scott, which, rude). "I would like you to stay in during recess. I have something to talk to you about." She gingerly pats him on the shoulder before getting up to help Jackson who is frantically waving his arm through the air.

Recess, normally a reprieve from the stress of sitting for so long, a long awaited holiday, comes too soon for Genim's liking. Scott throws him a concerned glance (Scott has three expressions: concerned, happy, and kicked puppy. Genim has decided that he likes happy the best and works to keep it on his friend's face), but he waves it off with a smile. He's not in trouble. The teacher's soul isn't making that annoyed bee noise.

Genim stays quiet, chewing on his hand to keep the words in, a shriek-echo-thunder-itch making him want to fill the silence with babble. The song sneaks in on bad days, just sometimes. He bites hard enough to bruise in effort to ignore it.

"Hand out of your mouth," the teacher sighs, and he complies. "Do you know why I want to talk to you?"

Yes, he wants to say. Yes. Because Silas has told him about parents who hurt their kids and how he worked very hard to find Abigail, who loves him even though he is different from her. That's why they can't tell John, because humans are unpredictable and that makes them dangerous. Neither Abigail nor Silas thinks John will hurt Genim, but they do not want to take the chance. But saying that would seem weird, so, "No." It seems like a safe answer, if a little out of character. Shut up. His head hurts. Souls are noisy and the song... His hand drifts back into the grip of his teeth.

"You know you can tell me anything, even a secret, right Stiles?"

No. He really can't. "Yes," he mutters around his wrist. He glances around the familiar too bright room. He bounces on his toes. His other hand slinks under his shirt, bitten nails not quite digging in to the soft skin there. (Pounding drums, a shudder of pain behind his eyes, souls quivering in delighted shrill bell ringing.)

"Stiles," she keeps repeating his name until she has recaptured his attention. "Is someone hurting you at home?"

"No."

And perhaps that is why she calls Abigail. Or maybe it's the way he sways, hands flying up to press against his burning eyes. Or it could be that he threw up all over her sensible shoes.

Or maybe the reason doesn't matter, just that she called Abigail, and John came to pick him up because he was closer. And they go to the doctor, and then a different doctor when the medicine prescribed by the first one makes him feel sick. John and Abigail hold him when he feels icky and let him stay home from school. They pet his hair and tell him they love him.

Silas comes over and cuddles with him when Abigail and John (his parents) have to work. The two of them curl together on the living room couch and play Power Puff Girls on the TV, volume turned down low.


	11. A Wedding-lude

When Melissa first met Abigail in the hospital she never expected to become friends. Then Stiles and Scott decided that they were best friends and just had to spend nearly every waking moment together. Things just sort of fell into place after that. Play dates turned into leaving John with the kids at the park to go get coffee which turned into breakfast every Monday morning when the kids went to school. The two women have a lot in common. Both, at the time of meeting, were single mothers raising little boys of around the same age. They like the same books. The same TV shows. Their tastes in music and movies differ slightly, but nothing that the other can't handle should they decide to spend time together on the couch with a bucket of ice cream and a pile of videos.

John never seemed to mind taking the boys out for a day, which helped a lot in developing their friendship.

Yet, this isn't where she expected herself to be two years later.

"Abi," Melissa sighs. She wraps her arms around the sobbing woman, carefully maneuvering them towards the bed. Abigail doesn't seem to notice the change in position. She just clings to her friend's shirt and chokes on tears. "Abi, Abi, Abi. You're getting married! This is supposed to be a happy day."

"It's a wonderful day," Abigail forces out, but she's still crying.

Melissa sighs again. "Then why are you crying, silly girl? John's a wonderful man. And he adores Stiles. What's wrong?"

A weak, teary laugh bubbles from the distraught bride. "I know. He's amazing and Stiles is amazing, hell, even Silas is amazing," and there is some sort of joke in there that Melissa is missing, but it causes Abigail to giggle. "But that's - I just - I never planned for this. I never wanted this."

"What?" This is not something they have covered before. These last few months, right after Stiles got sick, Abigail hasn't shut up about the wedding or how much she loves John, loves him for marrying her, for adopting Stiles. Melissa has sat on the couch so many times going over flowers and colors and dress designs with her friend. All she's been doing is planning this wedding.

"No, no. Just. Melissa." Abigail squirms, drawing back. Her hands curl into knots on her lap. Her eyes stay downcast, studying the bedspread. Then she leans over and whispers a secret into her friends ear. It is one she has kept secret for many years. "I haven't told anyone. Not John. Especially not Stiles. But I've known since I was ten, and -" she starts crying again. This time Melissa cries with her. "I never planned on Stiles, not even a little bit. He was a complete surprise. But I couldn't turn him away. Couldn't send my baby away. And then there was Silas! I was prepared to hate him" - What? - "but I couldn't! He was always there and helping. Then John came along and Stiles loved him. Loves him. How can he not? John's perfect!

"It's - I never wanted any of this, but it happened. It happened and I didn't want to stop it once it started. I couldn't."

Melissa gathers her up in another hug. She runs her fingers through brown hair and up and down her shaking back. Eventually the tears stop. Eventually.

"Well," the nurse says. "Planned for or not, you are getting married today. And I have it on good authority that John is 'perfect' so you stop this crying thing." It doesn't matter that her voice is scratchy or that her eyes are also red. It matters that Abigail laughs a real laugh. "So, Mrs. Abigail Stilinski, get up. Wash your face. I'll have your dress out by the time you get back. We'll do your makeup together. Because you are terrible with eyeliner, let me say."

That is exactly what they do.

Abigail's dress is an adorable white springtime thing, more of a sundress than a wedding dress. It falls to her knees and has pastel pink lace holding the back together that matches Melissa's similarly styled dress. It's a wonderful choice for the weather, especially since the wedding is taking place outside in the park.

The two laugh their way through makeup and shoes and into the car. Neither mentions when Abigail's lip quivers and they are careful not to mention, or think about, anything that would start up the crying again. They can talk about it later.

The wedding is held in a park across town, in a little field that Stiles and Scott had tons of fun decorating with fake white and gold flowers and ribbons. There are ribbons around chairs and across chairs and wrapped maze-like through the tables. The boys themselves are supposed to be dressed in white shirts with plain black pants, but they look like they have been attacked by a glitter monster. No one can find where they dumped the glitter, besides on themselves, but it is easy to find them just by following the shining trails in the grass.

John spends ten minutes laughing at them. So do most of the other guests.

Aside from that, everything goes perfectly. There are speeches and cake and the boys drown themselves in ice cream and sparkling cider. No one gets drunk or does anything stupid.

Melissa smiles as she takes the boys for the weekend, threatening them with baths and no TV for an entire week if they do not behave themselves. Abigail smiles back, but her eyes are warring between sorrow and joy.

"Go have a honeymoon," Melissa orders.

"Ma'am yes ma'am!" John mocks, throwing up a salute. He grabs both boys and swings them around.

"Call if anything happens?" Abigail asks.

"Not on your life," Melissa returns. She pushes the newlyweds towards the rented limo, the driver ordered to take them to a hotel in San Francisco for the weekend.


	12. Abigail

**Warnings:** Character death. Time skip - two years.

* * *

Abigail is human. Completely, 100% human, despite what certain demons might have to say on the matter. And like all humans, she is mortal, prone to injury and illness. Disease.

She wants to curl up on her side, huddle under the heated blanket Melissa McCall provided her with until the jarring shivers settle and she can breathe without the air feeling like ice water. There is no fat left on her body, nothing left to keep her warm. Her skin stretches pale and thin over protruding bones. Her cheeks are hollow, yellow tinted areas beneath bruised eyes, the purple the only source of natural pigment. Her hair (gods, her hair! Hair that Genim would spend hours braiding. Hair that John would tug lightly, teasingly, on those few mornings when they could make breakfast together. Long, dark, vibrant hair, a color she inherited from her father) is long since gone.

She knew this was coming. She has known since her tenth birthday (a day she will never get to experience with her baby, barely eight years old) when all young Seers come into their powers. Their own death is he first thing a Seer witnesses as truth. It is unchangeable, undeniable, unforgettable. At ten years old Abigail knew how she was going to die: rotting from the inside out,a slow liquefaction of her internal organs.

And Abigail is dying, unable to get warm under her heated blanket, unable to even curl into a pitiful, painful ball of agony and sorrow.

When the demon offered to help (that was last year, when a trip to the hospital for a regular checkup resulted in seeing an oncologist and several invasive tests), she had to refuse. She didn't want to. She wants to see her baby grow up. She wants to watch him become a man, stronger and healthier than he is now, perhaps more mellowed.

That is probably one of the things she hates the most about her visions. They rarely show her Genim, not after that first time three days before the demon arrived. It means that everything is a surprise, just like normal children with their normal parents. Except now she's dying and she wants to see him. Needs to see him, to know he will be alright without her there.

Ten years, the demon offered. Ten years from then and Genim would be seventeen. But Abigail knew. She knew and she Saw. A deal would do her no good, for not even Hell's power can break the hold Fate has on a Seer.

After her tenth birthday, Abigail tried to distance herself from everyone. Her death scared her then, just like it does now, and she never wanted anyone she loved to see her so broken and defeated. Too late now, of course. Now she has John and Genim and Melissa and Scott. Even the demon is staring at her like he is losing something precious.

Three nights before the demon arrived in her quaint little town, Abigail was subjected to two visions. The first was simple. The demon shows up with an infant halfling. He offers her a choice: take the boy or don't. The second vision is a bit more complicated. It showed the world should she refuse.

Genim, a tiny boy with powerful magic raised in an apocalyptic war-zone. He would see death on both sides. He would bloody his hands too early, too young, and forge a side of his own in the end of days. Demons and angels, fallen or otherwise, would rally under his banner. And at his stood Silas, not in charge but respected, looked up to. He would be strong as well, somehow having circumvented Genim's mother's deal.

If Azazel thinks his children are powerful, he had best hope to never run into a war-raised halfling.

Really, it was no choice when the demon came. For all that Genim looks up to his godfather, the demon and child are pinned to her side. She can keep them far, far away from where the fighting happens.

Abigail has never been the type of person who can look away when a child is hurt.

She never thought she would get so attached though. She never thought she would settle when her baby tried so hard to stay in control of his budding powers. She never planned on John, sweet and loving John. She never planned on Melissa or adorable, puppy-faced Scott.

But, that is life, even for a Seer, and Abigail so desperately wants to stay.

Last year there had been talk of children. She and John had wanted to expand their little family. Genim had been so excited at the prospect of a little sibling that the demon had said his soul burned brighter every time the subject was brought up. John thought the responsibility of a younger brother or sister would do wonders for helping his new son settle down a bit. She agreed.

But that was before the doctor's visits. Before the cancer struck her down and tied her to a useless hospital bed. Before Genim stopped talking when he thought they weren't paying attention. Before he spent nights sitting up, silent and unmoving, staring at a blank piece of wall like his world was collapsing in on itself. Before he started lying about running again (saying that he doesn't, that his meds are still working, don't worry) just to fill the void left by the illness.

Just, before.

A tear trails down the paper-like skin of her face. Frail fingers spasm against the blanket, unable to find the strength to pull it higher. She's dying and everything she knows is before. Everything she will know means nothing.

"Mama?" It is well past visiting hours, but Abigail finds herself unsurprised at her son's call. He sounds lost and small, so much less than the boisterous eight-year-old he should be. She loves him anyway, loves the sound of his voice. She can barely lift her head to look at him, her precious baby, young and scared and clutching the demon's hand like a lifeline. She still smiles.

"Hey baby," she manages to rasp. Talking hurts. Seeing the smile (a lie) on her son's face hurts more.

The demon places a hand on Genim's shoulder. "If you're careful, you can sit on her bed." Green eyes blink at her and look away, his face a mask of guilt and grief.

Are you sure? the look asks.

Yes.

Yes. She is going to die. Today. Probably tomorrow. The morphine drip does very little now to ease her pain.

Genim crawls into her bed. He fusses with her blanket, easing it around her shoulders. Each flailing limb is contained, a foreign sight, to ensure he causes her no unnecessary pain. Too late, but it is always too late. He lays down at her side, fingers twining with hers as he whispers in her ear. He's stronger than her. He has been for a while.

The warmth starts in her toes. It washes inch by inch up her shuddering, stick-like legs like water in a bath. It overtakes her knobby knees and creeps up her thighs, over her hips. It brushes her fingertips even as it strokes her belly, soothing the stabbing agony and lingering aches alike. She stops shivering as it slips into her mind, sinking in and settling. A warm cup of hot chocolate on a snowy winter day.

It is sometime near Christmas. Cinnamon flavors the air and tiny ringing bells fade in and out of her range of hearing. She's lounging on the couch, a throw blanket bunched around her shoulders and her feet wrapped in fuzzy slippers. She can hear Genim and Scott playing upstairs. They are planning on escaping into the cold to enjoy a rare snow day. John is in the kitchen attempting to make pasta. He's not terrible at it.

"Genim?" She can't see the demon, barely realizes she heard his voice. "What are you doing?"

When Genim answers it is muffled. He sounds far away, not the chattering she can hear from upstairs. That is clear, more defined. She's warm though. Warm and safe. Warm and tired. Her son is happy. Her husband is happy. All she wants to do is sink into the pleasant heat from the fire and rest. Close her eyes. Take a nap.

"Helping," her son says. "You can sleep now, Mama."

And she does.

* * *

_**AN: **Okay, so I cried while writing this. It didn't help that I used my best friend's name..._


	13. Three Weeks

**Warnings: ** Child neglect and grief

* * *

Genim doesn't remember making the fort. He doesn't remember commandeering the upper floor of the house either. In all likelihood, the rest of the house - meaning the laundry room, downstairs, and bedrooms - is probably devoid of blankets, pillows, and chairs. He even managed to find a tent and some rope. Where, he has no idea. The last week is kind of blurry in his memory.

He's set up a tent (somehow. He's never set up a tent before, but it's standing straight like he'd been taught be a professional) to open from two sides, one crowding the door to his room and the other into the hall. He doesn't sleep in it, but in the cave - a little hidey-hole he'd made from his bedframe, dresser, and desk. Unless he uses a flashlight, it is completely dark in the cave. That makes it safe, because if one can see him, then no one can find him.

The hallway is a maze of blankets, chairs, and tunnels. The ceiling is thick with towels and sheets to keep out most extraneous light. It blocks off all access to doors, except for the bathroom which remains closed unless he needs it. Three layers of blanket block the entrance to the tunnels. For the most part it is sealed shut with a series of clothespins and hair ties. He peeked out once, cringing at the light, to see the spider web he made out of the stairs. Rope tangled around nothing, cutting off any hope of an adult getting upstairs.

It's been two weeks since the funeral, three since Abigail's death (murder. He killed her. He's a murderer). The fridge is full of uneaten casserole that are slowly going bad. (He only knows this because he snuck out of his tunnels one night when the haze cleared and he caught a portion of the news on TV in between gathering up any and all prepackaged food to hide in the hall-tent.) John's hasn't tried to come upstairs. He just sleeps on the couch, the stench of alcohol clouding up the living room.

Gemin doesn't blame him. Not even when he's crying and really wants a hug, curled up in his cave under Abigail's favorite blanket. He killed her. He doesn't deserve hugs. Doesn't deserve to be comforted. Murderers aren't allowed nice things. They go to hell with the demons, and Genim, well, he's already half way there.

Silas, he knows, would smack him for even thinking such thing. The demon has put a lot of work into keeping Genim safe and well away from hell's reach. He doesn't need the eight-year-old messing everything up by thinking, and eventually doing, stupid things.


	14. Run Far

("I don't like him!" Silas snarls. He slams the cupboard closed. Abigail frowns at him, opening it again to put a mug away. When she turns back to the dishwasher her elbow plants itself firmly in his side. He grunts, taken by surprise.

"Too bad," she retorts, "because I do. John is a good man.")

The good man is sprawled face down on the couch, a bottle of beer tipped over by his flung out hand. He's wearing the same clothes from the funeral - nice pants now stained with alcohol, suit jacket tossed careless over the back of a chair. More bottles are scattered across the living room. Whiskey. Beer. Glasses half full of water lay abandoned on the table. Plates of almost eaten food - ranging from weeks old and gaining intelligence to probably still edible - fill the spaces in between.

(He kicks the dishwasher closed and gets a face full of water for his troubles. Abigail is at the sink holding the hose. She has one eyebrow raised, the same look adorning her face as when Genim throws a tantrum. Skeptical. Unimpressed. Displeased.

"What happens when he turns on you? Genim is mine!" Possessiveness is not the way to go, apparently. It earns him another jet of water from the sink.)

For the last eight years of his existence, the demon has been exceptionally good. Really truly. He hasn't killed anyone - mostly. There was that one idiot is Colorado who thought Abigail looked the right sort of helpless for his taste. And really? He must has been out of his mind because there is no way, no how that Abigail Rite was ever helpless. Never. She would have electrocuted the bastard had Silas not gotten to him first, ripping his spleen out and then eviscerating him. Lots of blood. No surprise that they had to move again. Oops. There were also a few other people who looked interested in Genim and that was just not okay, so none of those murders count. Not even a little.

Deals, too, have been something he has cut back on. He's still riding the power high from Genim's mother's soul, using it only to protect the boy. Hide them from demons. Just a few deals here and there so that no one is sent to track him down. A get-rich-fast and a suddenly-successful-son. No witch deals

Also, he has caused no major points of chaos on Earth. None. He's been better than some angels.

("John loves Genim; he loves us." The seer turns away. She opens the dishwasher and resumes unloading it. Silas jumps up on the counter, crossing his arms and, no, he is not pouting. Demons do not pout. He is scowling. Demonically. Yeah. "Nothing bad is going to happen."

He rolls his eyes. His true eyes. That kind of ruins the effect. "You don't know that. You don't have visions involving Genim. And John is human." He flashes his teeth, unfortunately human and blunt, at her back.

"So am I."

He slams his head back into the cabinet.)

The demon wants to kill him. Torture him. Slowly. Put some of Alistair's training to good use. Start with his fingers and rips them off at the joint. Every joint. Peel back the skin of his hands and snap all the bones before removing them. Slice between the bones of his arms. Keep him from bleeding out. Move on to his legs. Thin cuts up and down them. Keep him from passing out. Maximize pain. Chop him into tiny pieces and make him watch. Gut him and strangle him with his own intestines.

He doesn't though. Can't. Won't. He has a child to take care of, and, unlike certain people, he's going to do it right. And that doesn't involve murder.

Yet.

("You're dying."

The woman stills. They are in a store, standing between cereal and canned goods. Her hand it stretched out to grab a box of Lucky Charms. "You shouldn't just appear like that. Someone will see you one of these days."

"Abigail." His voice is solid, no hint of the anger to betrayal he feels. He brushes past her to the cereal, putting it in the basket.

"I am." She seems to fold in on herself. Thinner. Smaller. Less secure. Her soul twitches in its confines. "Cancer. I've known for years." An errant lock of hair is flicked over a shoulder. It's a confident gesture, ruined by her eyes on the floor, her hands clenched into fists by her sides. The subtle shaking of her shoulders.

"I could -"

"No.")

Abigail has been dead for three weeks. The demon has been unavoidably detained for three weeks.

He had to be sure. Absolutely sure. Abigail doesn't belong in Hell, but he needed, he needed to know that she wasn't there. Alistair caught him poking around the racks and decided the younger demon needed to refresh his skills. Seven years in Hell. Three weeks on Earth. He thought John would be able to take care of the boy. Especially after four years of being the kid's father.

But no. Of course not. Three weeks and the man is still passed out drunk on the couch and Genim is barricaded upstairs.

He takes the boy and runs.


	15. p1 Dear Dad

The nightmare shakes him awake, shakes the car, but that might just be the car hitting a pothole. Or something. At least nothing caught on fire this time. (Smoke filled the room, the walls smoldering and red, comprised only of burnt plaster and coals, still standing through some force of magic. Genim was stuck, flailing and trapped under fire-crisped blankets come alive. They weren't strangling him, quite, but holding him down and he couldn't breathe under the weight of them. Couldn't see past the smoke and the flames. Silas couldn't get to him, pushed into what was once a table, now shattered, splintered bits of wood impaling the demon's stolen body.) Silas doesn't look at him, just keeps driving, and Genim allows the terror and grief to be swallowed by a sort of buzzing numbness.

The clock reads 4:57am. Morning, at least. He got eight hours before the nightmares this time. It's better than usual, hell, six hours would have been better. He hasn't been getting enough sleep for the last two months. Catching an hour's nap before the dreams hit is the best he's had this far. (Dreams about Abigail, her eyes glassy, mouth gaping open and teeth falling out as she blames him, accusing, hating because he killed her, ruined her life. He knows. Knows knows knows knows. He ruined everything by running her ragged all over the damn world because he just couldn't control himself. Too dangerous to be around people. Too dangerous to be let out of her sight. He killed her twice over. By stealing her life and causing her death, it's his fault, _his fault. _And she says that. Tells him. Blames him. And she's right.)

Genim blinks up at the roof of his mother's Jeep. He can feel the post nightmare buzz (not apathetic, just drained, because apathy doesn't hurt) creep under his skin like so many thousands of insects attempting to eat their way out of his body, tiny wings flap-fluttering along his bones. It is not numbness, but painful; a punishment. Sometimes, if he doesn't move, the feeling will last until he falls asleep again and the bugs invade his dreams, actually eating him, until bite by microscopic bite they consume him.

He mostly doesn't move.

(He knows Scott - lanky, lovable, baby-deer Scott, would force him up and outside and moving. Out to play. Scott is like sunshine, so bright that even the bogs deep down, the aches in his bones, would burn up in the light.)

He misses everyone.

Not that Silas isn't awesome or taking good care of him. Genim gets food every four hours (Silas set an alarm, somehow. It beeps and suddenly they are pulling over at MacDonald's or Taco Bell or some random restaurant). They stop at gas stations every so often for bathroom breaks. They sleep in motels and hotels when the chance appears. (Not once in two months has Genim received a hug or had someone wipe his tears away or kiss a wound when he falls. There is no one to hold him after the nightmares. No one to soothe him. No kindness in the black eyes of a demon.) It's just... he's been gone for two months. The longest he's been separated from Scott since they met was a week. Scott had chicken pox and Mrs. McCall woudn't let him see anyone.

He misses Dad, John. ("The human is beneath you, Genim," the demon snarled, once, when Genim woke calling for John, for Daddy, because he didn't want to be alone, wanted to go home. "He his an unacceptable guardian.") Even those two weeks before Silas came, at least John was there. Genim wants him so bad it hurts, driving away even the bugs with this fresh new agony. As as they zigzagged down to Mexico from Maine, the demon's face grows hard, his eyes flickering black more often.

They're drifting through Texas currently, aimed towards crossing the boarder into Mexico via Arizona - too close to California for Silas. Genim decided last week that he wants to see South America again and Silas chose the course.

Brazil, Chile, and Argentina are the only countries Genim knows the names of in South America, so those are the places they are going to travel. He can remember living, briefly, in a small village at the edge of a forest. Probably Brazil. He was three, he thinks. Very little at least. He kept getting lost in the forest (purposefully running and hiding in among the tree, distracted by the pretty flowers and birds), his mother's voice swept away by the wind and the droning mosquitoes. (Don't think of her, his fault.)

His stomach growls. He ignores it. The clock on the dash reads quarter to five. Nothing will be open yet. Or, nothing interesting will be open yet. They can get food later.

But Silas is pulling off the freeway, speeding towards a not too distant city. Not a city. It's more of a large town. No huge buildings impaling the sky. No mall for mindless hoards of zombie-shoppers to decompose in. They drive by a high school on the outskirts of civilization before swerving into the parking lot of a 24 Hour convenience store.

"Lucky Charms," Genim demands. Because he can. He tries, vaguely, to keep breakfast-lunch-dinner food at appropriate times. Marginally appropriate. Yesterday he had leftover spaghetti for breakfast and three apples for dinner, so he doesn't always succeed. But he tries, so it counts.

Silas nods and exits the car. Genim waits a few minutes and sneaks off on his own.

John Stilinski slouches over his desk filling out another pile of paperwork. Reports, mostly. Tickets. Standard.

He hasn't been sleeping well. Not since Melissa McCall came over to shake him out of his grief and discovered Stiles missing. Discovered the fort, the stashed food, and the lack of eight-year-old boy. A boy probably just as heartbroken as John over the death of Abigail.

How could he have been so stupid! God, Stiles is just a kid! He probably doesn't understand, not really, not why Abigail is gone and John - God.

Shit.

"Stilinski!"

John jumps, accidentally striking the pen across the paper, smearing ink over a half-finished report. Cursing under his breath, he glares at Michaels who glares right back. He hasn't been in the good graces of anyone since Stiles went missing. They blame him. He blames himself.

"What?" he snaps, crumpling the report and starting a new one.

Miechaels sneers. "You got a letter." He dangles it between two fingers teasingly. John snatches it and tears it open.

He stops breathing. Something must be happening on his face because the hostility drains from Michaels in the span of several seconds.

"John? What's wrong? John!"

He barely has the sense to place the picture face up on the desk, his hands shaking as she draws the letter from the envelope. Michaels swears loudly, drawing the attention of the rest of the department, but that doesn't matter, sounds oddly muted, because there is a letter and a picture of his little boy in the arms of a blonde man he barely recognizes.

_Dear Dad,_

_I'm okay. I'm with Silas. My godfather. You met him once, I think. Before you adopted me._

_I'm not going to tell you where we're going. I think Silas is mad at you._

_Right now we're in Texas. It's really hot here. It doesn't get this hot in Beacon Hills. I think it has something to do with trees. There aren't enough trees here._

_I miss you._

_We took the Jeep. Sorry. Or, Silas took the Jeep. He's not sorry._

_I saw the Amber Alert last week. We stayed in a motel and I got to watch TV and I saw it. I thought you might be worried. I thought Silas old you he took me. Sorry. But I'm okay._

_We visited Canada. No snow there this time of year. That was dis disap sad. I want to see the snow. Maybe we'll go to Russia. I speak Russian, did you know that? Silas taught me when I was little._

_I hope the picture survived. I don't know much about mailing, but the store lady was very helpful._

_We went to Disney World. It was awesome! When I come home you and Mrs. McCall should take me and Scott. Or Disney Land if you guys don't want to drive us down to Florida._

_Can you tell Scott I miss home too? And that when school starts again he needs to keep his grades up because I will not come back to have him a grade behind me. That's just not going to happen._

_I love you_

_Stiles_

"John?" The sheriff is standing where Michaels was, hand stretched forwards as if to provide comfort through touch. "Is that about your boy?" His voice is kind, but John is too blank to respond right away.

"It's from -" he gasps and realizes he's been holding his breath. One in. One out. "It's from Stiles. He sent it."

"Does it say where he is? Who he's with?" Brown eyes flick down to the picture, to the man. Silas.

John touches the edge of the photo. Now that he's looking he can see the Disney logo. "That's Silas, his godfather. Silas... Christensen, I think. I only met him once. Before - before Abigail and I married. We didn't get along." He's still in shock.

The sheriff sighs. "I'm going to call the case agent."

"Yeah. Okay." John sounds vacant to his own ears.

Stiles. It's good to see him smiling.


	16. Dear Dad p2 - Run Run Run

Rain forests, Genim has decided, are the absolute best. Or they would be, if it weren't for the bugs and general endless heat. Everything is green, and alive, and full of colored flowers designed to catch the attention of the various creatures meant to pollinate such plants. Hummingbirds are his favorite. Tiny and flitting around, conducting wars over the best flowers. He kind of wants to be a hummingbird. Too fast to catch and amazingly talented. Obviously the best type of bird.

The forest is also a wonderful place to play hide and seek. (Because he is playing hide and seek. Nothing else. No fear. It's just a game.)

Genim sucks in another breath as he runs deeper into the forest, dodging tress and roots and overly sharp bushes that are determined to trip him up. Seriously, some of these thorns are longer than his fingers. And their everywhere! Thorns and poisonous things. But other than that, the forest is perfect.

Behind him, at "camp," Silas is silently counting down from eighty. He's hiding too.

When Genim first introduced the game two days into their stay, the demon decided he hated it with a passion. The first couple of rounds they played went well, but then Genim found an amazing hiding spot. It took Silas three days to find him. Three days of unsupervised exploration in Brazil. Three days of sneaking back into camp to scrounge food and water, because he is not going to eat something he finds growing on some random tree or bush, not even if it looks like something he might eat at home. He's eight, not stupid.

A scream like a wounded animal tears through the leaves. It starts a roaring cacophony of noise from the neighboring wildlife, birds shrieking, everything with sense fleeing the area. That's eighty then.

Genim chokes own a terrified sob (he's not scared, it's just a game), tears blurring his vision. He trips, skinning his hands and knees before stumbling back into a run. Faster. He tries desperately to suppress his power, the darkness in his soul that calls out to other demons. Silas once said that he shines like a beacon, his purity in the dark the near opposite of most demonic entities that it calls, attracts like light to insects.

Meg is no exception. (Her name is not Meg, not her true name, demonic name. Genim is tempted to call her Wednesday, the closest English translation. A pretty blonde girl. Or she would be, if it weren't for the demon inside blurring her face into a beastly image.) A visit to the surface with orders to find a wayward demon. No record of Silas' extermination – but no deals either. Not for more than two years. And for a crossroads demon, two years of inactivity is unacceptable.

The new king put a bounty on his head. Meg went hunting. Meg found Genim.

More screaming. Genim takes a chance and uses his magic (Accio, he whispers, and usually laughs. Not now. Can't breathe, his mind clouded wit fear. But Silas always berates him for using Harry Potter to work his magic) the upper portion of a tree. Too heavy and growing and large to move more than bending, swaying a little. Genim, light and small, is swept up into the branches. He climbs as high as he can. The branches here are thinner and he has to be careful moving, but they hold. They cannot hold an adult human, the body of one Meg stole. It gives Genim an advantage should Meg grow bored with punishing Silas.

(Silas told him to run. Run far and fast and, most importantly, away from everyone. Keep moving. Don't use his powers. So Genim ran and ran and ran, all the while forced to listen to Silas screaming, screaming, screaming. He knows that is her fails, if he breaks and turns, that Meg wil kill him, torture him, rend his soul apart and force it together again wrong and twisted.)

He concentrates on the trees. Trees are cool.

* * *

John's mail has been screened since the letter from Stiles. He still gets it, but it is looked through beforehand so that anything new, either from the kidnapper or his son, gets to the FBI right away. It also takes care of the astounding amount of mail - not including emails and phone messages - he receives from people claiming to have seen his son. (Everyone is worried. Stiles mentioned leaving the country twice and there is no record of Silas Christensen.)

Somehow, a letter slips through. _The_ letter slips through.

It's been months. John rips it open desperately, calling for one of the other officers to summon the case agent.

_'Dear Dad,_

_Hi! We're leaving South America today. We spent the last several weeks exploring Brazil. Before that we were in Argentina and Chile. Also Mexico, but that was only for, like, a week, and just passing through._

_I lost track of the date, but I found it again and bought a calendar. So now I can keep track of the date and look at pictures of puppies. Tell Scott happy birthday, yeah? I saw a dog that reminded me of him when I bought the calendar. She was adorable and brown and floppy and had these huge, galumphy paws. Honest, she was like a girl Scott, only a dog._

_Guess what! I can't speak Portuguese! Or, I can, but I keep mixing it up with Spanish. Silas thinks it's funny that I can learn things like Ancient Greek and Arabic, but I can't keep Spanish and Portuguese straight._

_He's kind of a jerk._

_I'm going to miss the forests. Silas and I played hide and seek a lot. Or, I played hide and seek. Silas hates the game and banned it because I'm so good at it. I hid for days and he couldn't find me._

_Course, when his cousin showed up Silas lifted the ban. Meg really wanted to play. I won, which is so good you don't even know. Because Meg is kinda scary at hide and seek. Silas lost. That wasn't so good. But Meg couldn't find me so she left all huff-like. That was amusing. Fun._

_Scary, but fun. Meg isn't a very nice woman. But she didn't find me, so whatever. _  
_No worries!_

_Oh yeah! The girl-dog-Scott. Her owner was wicked cool. She lives on the outskirts of this one tiny farming town in the middle of nowhere. She doesn't have any teeth, but her nails are like talons and her eyes are purple. Like, legit purple. The purple of those flowers I gave Mrs. McCall. She taught me how to weave and talked a bit about her daughter and grand-daughter. They live closer to town and sell her blankets. I didn't get one. Silas wouldn't let me._  
_Is it raining at home yet? I think I should figure out if owls can actually deliver mail. It would be cool because then you could write back. Love you!_

_-Stiles'_

John wants to say that Stiles is being instructed on what to write, but he knows his son. He knows how the boy writes and talks. This letter is all Stiles. He talks about everything and anything as it occurs to him. And yet, he isn't mentioning anything overly specific. Nothing that they could use to locate him.

He's leaving South America. There was a dog that looks like Scott and a creepy woman who owns her. He played hide and seek (and was lost in the woods for several days). A man called Meg (probably not his real name, because real names and Stiles are only passingly acquainted) played hide and seek with them, but Meg is apparently dangerous and playing with him is scary.

Stiles was being chased through a foreign forest by a dangerous possible-relative of Silas. Silas, who isn't in any database. Silas, who shows up as a missing person from Montana under a different name. Silas, who lead the FBI to investigate the identities of everyone involved with Stiles. Including Stiles.  
Silas, who made it possible to discover that Abigail, dear sweet Abigail, was lying. She and Stiles have been linked to several murders in various countries and states under several names.

No one can find Stiles' real name. There is no record of Abigail ever being pregnant either.

Five months after Abigail's death and John's world is falling apart in ways he never imagined.

But he is going to find his son. And when he does, he is going to do everything in his power to keep his son safe. Safe from Silas (Jonas Smart, 24, missing since 1997). Safe from Silas' relatives (of dubious relation).  
Just, safe.

* * *

Russia is amazing. Cold, but amazing. Genim only now realizes the disadvantages of insisting on visiting in winter.

Silas and Genim have been in Russia for a little over three weeks now. It's October. There is snow and ice everywhere. Silas, naturally, is not bothered by the cold. Stupid demon. Even in their procured cabin with a fire, Genim wears at least two long-sleeved shirts at all times. On the outside he looks like a marshmallow he's so bundled up.

It's probably because they were near the equator a little for than a month ago. Two weeks of travel time was apparently not enough to acclimate to sub-zero temperatures. Boo.

Currently, Genim is wandering around the outskirts of a town whose name he can't be bothered to remember. He can speak some Russian, but it's not as good as his ancient languages, so he isn't trying very hard to recall names when they'll be leaving in a day or so. He's following an interesting magical presence that has been popping up at the very edges of his senses for a while now. It's distracting. He wants to find it. Silas does not approve. Something about contracts and needing to protect him. Blah blah blah. Mom would have let him explore. So, Silas is a little tied up right now, caught within a demon trap and strapped to a chair. He may, possibly, also be dangling from the ceiling.

Genim is grounded later. Without a doubt. Whatever.

"Are you lost?"

Genim jumps, flails as he desperately struggles to stay upright in the knee-high snow. Not his best idea, attempting to pivot while unable to really move his feet. He ends up on his back, cold seeping through his pale blue coat.

The voice belongs to a girl. She laughs at him, pretty and high and bell-like. It echoes strangely on the breeze. Doesn't snow have a dampening effect on sound? That could be something to look up later. Does his town have a library?

A cold hand touches his wrist. He notices, finally, the magical presence he's been stalking. Tracking. "Here. Let me help you." She smiles benignly down at him. "I'm sorry I startled you."

Genim allows the girl to lever him up and then stares. It's like looking at a (slightly) older version of Lydia Martin. Or, it would be, if Lydia was blonde and on the verge of hypothermia. Also, kinda transparent. Genim can see snow swirling behind her. He can look through her and see things! Weird. Also creepy. How is she transparent?

"Not your fault," he responds belatedly. There is an awkward silence that she seems content to let fester. Genim hated silence. It makes him twitch. Lots of things make him twitch. He fills it with, "I'm Peter." It's habbit by now to change names, to lie and fake, switch certain personality traits around where he can to come off as a different kid. It has gotten him in trouble, living in Beacon Hills. A minor slip and he'll use the wrong name, not respond to Stiles, and sometimes answer when a teacher calls on George or Andy. Even Rose, once, because there was a month or so before they moved to Beacon Hills that Genim decided he wanted to be a girl.

Than he realizes that they are speaking English. That is probably a bad sign.

"Liar," the girl titters. Genim grins. "You may call me Calipso." Snow dances up around her, brushing her shoulders and cascading down like a cape before the wind whisks it away. She's standing on top of the snow, he notices. He hadn't before because he is higher up on the hill than her. Her dress (and who wears a dress in the middle of winter?) swishes one way and then the other despite the wind.

Genim shivers. Her smile becomes less benign.

"I'm not lost. I was looking for you." Is it getting colder? He reaches for the Hellfire burning in his soul. Heat flares briefly in his blood before extinguishing. Ice begins to crust over the surface of the snow.

Oh yeah. He is so grounded.

"Poor plan."

"I'm starting to see that."

Calipso is a frost sprite. He recognizes her now. Mischievous and deadly, they enjoy finding people lost in the wilderness and freezing them. Usually to death. Sometimes, groups of frost sprites will join up with wind spirits to create week-long blizzards that span hundreds of miles. Silas is going to kill him, bring him back, and then ground him.

Shivering violently now, Genim risks a question. Maybe, if he is interesting enough, she won't kill him right away. He doesn't particularly want to die just now. Bad for his health and all. "Aren't you a little close to town?"

She laughs loudly. "A little, yes. But there are hunters here and hunters are so much fun to play with. This morning I froze their coffee. Last night I turned their showers to slush. I'm thinking next I'll put ice crystals in the blood, see what happens. I haven't done that before, you know. It might be fun!"

Calipso brushes her fingers over his ear. Then, faster than he can see, faster than he can process screaming deargodsithurtspleasemakeitstopsorrysorrysorrynodon'tpleasepainithurtssomuchstopstopstopstopstopstopstop, she strikes, claws raking over his face. Blood blooms and freezes. Ice splinters from the wounds.

A crack sounds through the agony, louder than screaming-crying-burning that is Genim's awareness of the world. Calipso shrieks. She drops him, turns to face the attackers - Genim takes that moment to slide into unconsciousness.

Yep. Silas is going to kill him. Y'know, if the hunters don't.


	17. Dear Dad p3 - Not What You Wanted

_'Dear Dad,' the letter begins. It always begins the same._  
_'I was going to write a week ago, but I broke my arm. Back to the hospital we went! Can I just say that I hate hospitals? Because I do. Hate hate hate. Hate._  
_We're in Russia right now. It's a huge change from Brazil. Very cold. Not my brightest idea to come right after Brazil, either. I love all the snow. It's super fun here. Except for the hospitals. I could do without visiting those._  
_Silas is mad at me. Understandable. I tied him to the ceiling and ran off to get hurt. He hates it when I get hurt. Now I'm not allowed anywhere without him._  
_I met a girl. Or, she looked like a girl. I think she was a girl. She could have been a ghost. We got lost in his freak snow storm. That's where I broke my arm. I got frostbite too - pay no mind to my new scars when I get home, yeah? They're on my face, so they're a little noticeable. Just a bit of cold damage. No worries! Forget I even said anything!_  
_Anyway, I'm tired, so I'll end this letter here. Friendly reminder that hospitals suck!_  
_-Stiles'_

Stiles is hurt. Stiles is hurt enough to warrant a stay in a Russian hospital. Stiles is hurt enough to outright state it in a letter.

John wants to panic, can feel his lungs constrict as if iron bands have wrapped around his chest, tightening with every passing second. He crumples the edge of the paper - accidentally. These letters are the only thing her has of Stiles these days. He would never purposefully ruin one.

Then the sheriff is there, one solid hand on his shoulder while the other dials their extension for the FBI. The letter is gently extracted from his fist - no one has figured out how they keep slipping past the people screening his mail. Careful fingers smooth the wrinkled edge, eyes flitting over the childish handwriting.

"He's injured." A statement. John cringes from it.

"Stiles doesn't talk about getting hurt," he chokes out past the lump in his throat. "He hasn't in the four years I've known him." Four years, eight months, three weeks. He turns nine in a few months. April 8. Is that even his real birthday? "It's like the pain doesn't occur to him." A broken arm mentioned because the letter is 'late' by Stiles' standards. Mentioned so that he can complain about being stuck in a hospital. New scars - frostbite on his face? - because they'll be obvious if, when he comes home. How did he get frostbite on his face? Is it really frostbite? Is it something else? He said that Silas (Jonas Smart, former computer technician) is angry at him. Angry that he got hurt, but does that mean he wouldn't hurt Stiles?

John takes a deep breath. Exhales.

He has to believe that Stiles is safe with Silas. It's been six months. He has no choice but to believe.

* * *

Genim glares as the foggy gas station mirror. He is not pleased. Not at all. Not one little bit. The boy growls and slams both fists into the glass.

He's lucky he didn't lose the eye. That's what the doctors said. Lucky.

Calipso too offense when the hunters arrived, raking her claws down the left side of Genim's face. The hour jagged cuts froze instantly, skin blackening and peeling as if charred. Frostbite combined with deep wounds - it was not a good mix.

Genim will always bear her mark, the mark of a thwarted frost sprite.

He wrote of scars, he didn't write of the damage.

The scars appear bold, black against pale skin as if tattooed there. One slashed down the middle of his left eye. It neared split the eyelid in half only to have the ice form too quickly, fragile crystals holding skin together. His vision has dimmed to fuzzy gray outlines. It might improve, might not. Currently it's a handicap Genim doesn't think he can survive. Some of the things they've run into... Blind-spots are death in the supernatural world.

Lucky, the doctor said, that the eye wasn't punctured. Lucky he has any sight at all.

The other three are only slightly less dramatic. One skirts along his hairline from temple to ear. It was shallower than the others and not quite as obvious. Another clips his eyebrow, ducking close to the corner of his eye before tucking snugly under his jaw. Luck again that it missed his artery. Luck that he lived. The third scar curves around the side of his nose, stopping just below his cheekbone.

They're going to be hell to hide. He knows nothing of concealing enchantments and neither does the demon. He can't exactly wear a hood for the rest of his life.

Worse, people ask questions when encountering children with mysterious or violent scars. Children like that get noticed. Remembered. Two things Genim and Silas have been hoping to avoid.

Sure, continent hopping isn't exactly challenging for a demon. As powerful as Silas is, it's not even very difficult to bring the car. They can leave as soon as attention is drawn, but...

Genim huffs and glares down at his bleeding hands. It hurts. Glass shards protrude from various cuts, blood oozing from around them to drip dangerously on the floor. Blood is powerful. He should clean that up.

* * *

Beacon Hills is strung up with twinkling lights. Decorations - plastic snowmen despite the lack of snow, Santa's and his herd of ornamental reindeer, face icicles - grace almost every lawn or rooftop. Wreaths, both real and fake, hang joyously from doors. Even the station has a pathetic little potted evergreen twined with tinsel and lights, a few glass baubles dangling precariously from the scrawny branches. Also, candy canes, but those disappear almost as fast as Sean Piers and hang them.

John doesn't care.

He brought out the tree at Melissa's insistence, but failed to decorate it. Stiles loves decorating the tree. He's complain vigorously whenever John and... and Abigail began stringing up lights before he god home from school. Pester them all through November that the tree should be in the living room now, thank you.

But Stiles isn't coming home and neither is Abigail. For different reasons, obviously, but both wounds ache and burn and it feels like someone is tearing into his chest with a crowbar. The letters lie when they say his son is coming home soon. At least it's a consistent lie.

Midnight ticks closer, Christmas Ever fading slowly with the night. John can't believe he is being so ridiculous, staring at the oddly wrapped box perched on the coffee table in front of him.

_'Dearest Daddy_  
_Merry Christmas! Sorta. I mean, it's only the first so I expect this will get to you before Christmas._  
_I got presents for everyone. One for Scott. The blue one. And no, it's not a puppy. I wanted to get him a puppy, but I couldn't figure out how to get it past customs in time for Christmas. I've been reading. America has some odd laws about transporting animals in a timely way. Lame. Tel him not to open it until Christmas. Christmas Day. Got it?_  
_Mrs. McCall gets a present too! It's the red one with little bells. Make sure to give them their presents. I'm not Santa. I can't travel through fireplaces. Yet. Soon I will figure out how to make floo powder and then no on can stop me from going wherever I want. Do I need to be a wizard to invent floo powder?_  
_You have a present too, the green and white one if you haven't guessed. It's probably not what you want. I'm not ready to come home yet. Sorry. But I will be. Eventually._  
_Speaking of - writing of? - I will probably not be home for my birthday either. Just a warning. But we should make up for the lost time. OH! We could go to Disney Land with Scott and Mrs. McCall and you can buy me Batman comics. Batman comics are a must._  
_I don't know if I told you or not, but I'm keeping up with my school work. I don't want to fall behind my grade. Tell Scotty that if he's falling behind I will squish him. Squish. I like that word._  
_We're not is Russia anymore, thank gods. It is cold up there. I mean, I know it's winter and I know that Russia is ridiculously far north, but still. There was ice is our motel room. Ice. Inside the the motel room. Not cool. Or, well, cool as in cold but not cool as in not awesome. Yeah? The doctors told me that I need to stay warm. For my face._  
_Moving on. We skipped over to Japan for a bit, a week? Not nearly long enough for me to learn the language, but I did learn how to order noodles because I love noodles. You have no idea. Noodles are... Noodles are love._  
_We're in Egypt doing the tourist thing. Tourists are weird. I'm glad we don't get many at home. The history is fascinating, though. It's hot again, at least doing the day. Nights can get kinda cool. But it's a different hot from Brazil. Hot dry, not hot wet._  
_I wonder if we can travel straight on the equator? That might be cool._  
_Merry Christmas! Love you! Miss you!_  
_-Stiles'_

After the FBI confiscated the presents and the letter, John was allowed to distribute the gifts to their intended recipients. Blue to Scott. Red to Melissa. Green to sit tauntingly under his bare tree next to a present for Stiles that he has been unable to resist buying. There is something horrible about hope. The cloying sense that maybe this time. Maybe tomorrow. Next week.

Midnight strikes the clock with a chiming melody. John waits the twelves notes with his heart trapped between one beat and the next, everything still except for the bells. When it stops he leans forward and carefully untying the ribbon impossibly knotted around the box. Gently, he pries the tape away from what he thinks might be an edge. Stiles has never been good at wrapping presents. It shows in excessive amounts of tape and too much paper.

There are two gifts.

The first is a paperweight of the three pyramids painted gold and brown. John smiles at hit, but his attention is diverted by the second gift. Packed in foam and crumbled newspaper is a framed photo.

Sand stretches from one side of the frame to the other, the sky a bright flash of blue over gold. In the background is a pyramid, and another one, smaller, further away, near the left corner. Front and center is his little boy, John's little boy, changed by time away but still recognizable. He's wearing white, which is a little odd. White pants and a loose white shirt complete with hood. Even his shoes, peaking over the sand at the bottom of the frame are white. He's grinning at the camera, one hand lifted to wave and blurred with motion. Brown hair, spikey with length and sweat, peaks out from under the hood. He's pale still. Sunburn reddens his cheeks and nose.

But most shocking, most surprising, most horrifying are the thin black lines marring the left half of his son's face.

Merry Christmas indeed.

* * *

Silas is acting weird. Twitched. And Genim doesn't think is has anything to do with John this time. Because Silas seems to have developed an aversion to all things North America. The United States in particular is to be avoided as if everyone there has the plague. Not just California, not Beacon Hills, but everything. As if he's expecting angels to descend and destroy everything.

Not something Gemin things is all that likely. Angels that is.

The boy pulls his hood up and slouches further into the seat. There is no way, absolutely no way that he is leaving the jeep.

He thinks they are in Australia.

Thinks because he fell asleep on day when they were circling the Mediterranean (Greece, specifically. Probably his favorite country ever. Followed by Italy. Because languages. And history) and when he woke up there was dirt and dist and cows. Freaking cows. He doesn't like them.

(Silas smirks at him whenever the skirt through a herd of cows. It's not fair. He didn't wake up to some cow eating his head.)

Silas won't tell him where they are. They stay away from towns unless they need supplies which are picked up in bulk. Any sign of the supernatural and the the demon drives in the opposite direction. Genim would rationalize this with his encounter with the frost sprite and his injury, but...

It doesn't fit.

When he (finally) gets a chance to send a letter back home it is little more than a note. He stuffs the hastily written scrap of a note in an envelope purchased at the post office, his remaining stamps plastered everywhere expect the address. He has a feeling it's going to be the last for a while.

* * *

_'Dad,_  
_Silas is acting weird. I think he's hiding something from me. He's keeping us away from towns as much as possible. I'll write again when I can._  
_I love you,_  
_-Stiles'_


	18. Homecoming

Genim learns quickly the art of traveling alone. He needs to belong. Look like he belongs no matter that he's ten and small, obviously a child. Unattended children will be given an espresso and a free puppy. Those signs are lies. He has never once been given a free puppy. Or coffee. Not that he really wants any. Coffee might smell good, but it is not something he wants to drink. Expect, maybe, possibly, right now. Right now when it's freezing (not literally, but he's tired and hungry and that always changes the temperature) and he's walking on the side of a deserted stretch of highway, rain drumming down on his unprotected head. He was soaked through hours ago. An over-large hoodie did little to keep him dry in the sudden downpour. Warm though it may be, hanging to his knees with the sleeves dangling several inches past his fingertips, hood cinched tight to keep the silly thing up, it is not appropriate rain gear.

He doesn't regret stealing it. Borrowing. He wanted it more than anyone else. Needed it over the rest of his layers. Over his backpack. A backpack weighing heavy on his shoulders, waterlogged. The contents are probably safe. He's not stupid. He watches weather reports before he leaves his nightly shelters. Wrapping everything in several plastic bags filched from various stores was probably one of his ore brilliant ideas. Books should not get wet. Neither should his pitiful supply of money or food.

A gurgle at the thought of food makes Genim grimace, curling around his stomach. Money is scarce, used mostly for travel, meaningful meals are a rarity. On good days he eats maybe twice. Scrounging around his garbage bins and dumpsters until he finds something maybe edible. Other times he'll break into someone's house and grab a few cans of soup or something. Never too much. Never enough to be noticed. But non-perishables are his emergency only food and what makes sure, most times, that he can eat at least once a day.

The lack of food makes traveling hard, his energy draining faster than he can replenish it. More often than not Genim finds himself relying on his magic to get his places. More often than he feels comfortable with given the current supernatural political situation (not that he knows a lot about what is going on right now, except that some high-rank demon is making waves), Genim ends up calling on the shadows and hellfire that hold him together and unbinding them. He'll dissolve into ash and embers, catching on the breeze and floating away. His control is shakey. It takes effort to stay separated like that. Sometimes he'll lose it, reforming ten feet up and dropping onto whatever surface happens to be beneath him. Sometimes it's water or grass, other times it's trees or pavement. Once or twice he landed in the middle of an intersection. Every time he reassembles, he collapses. Has to work out breathing and muscles and brain functions. There are zero ways to dodge cars in the first minute or so after he becomes solid.  
Survival has been luck.

Genim isn't sure whether or not he likes luck, or despises it. Current tally points to loathing. Pure, unadulterated loathing. Luck means the chance of rain in the early evening has changed into torrential downpours lasting well into the night. Luck is running out of food. Luck is the buses not running out this way until monday. (Common sense is ducking out of sight when cars drift by, not willing to fish for a ride. There is risk of happening upon a pedophile or kindly person determined to take him to a police station.)  
One the other hand, luck is not running into any demonic forces. Using so much magic, so much demonic energy - he should be lit up brighter than the sun on any supernatural radar. Demons, especially, shouldn't even have to look to see what he's up too. Purity in the dark, as Silas said. Radio silence has him suspicious.

Good or bad, he supposes, luck is shit. Because you never know which way it is going to go until you're there and it's blindsiding you off the side of the road.

In the distance he can see blurry lights wavering in the rain. The outline of a gas station. Buildings with windows lit from within. The occasional street lamp defending sidewalks from the storm. He's close. A mile or less. But he's tired. Drained. Magic a withering spark from overuse. Body protesting the lack of food and freezing rain. He hasn't slept in two days, so close to home he could taste it and maybe if he walked just a little further before resting he could get there sooner. Just a little bit sooner. A mile and he can be home. A mile and he can get a hug from his dad and never have to leave his arms again. He never wants to leave.

Genim's feet drag through the mud, little divots quickly filled or flattened by water. It's effort to pry his shoes from the grasping surface with every step. More effort to step up onto the road. Raising his legs that high - a few inches - seems like torture. He can feel, vaguely, his control slip and his eyes flicker to black; the world around him flashes bright with power that human eyes are incapable of seeing. It burns. Blinds him just long enough that he has to pause, wrest his control back into place, and stays still for several minutes, panting.

This is a side effect Genim has experienced many times in the last several months. Whenever he's exhausted beyond belief, the hellfire springs up. It wants to protect. Consume. Destroy. And the dark braided through his soul coils around him, hiding. Demonic energy. He's overused that too, but weak as he is, the power of hell is still strong and it's three shades away from debilitating to keep everything contained.

Halfling, Abigail used to call him. Maybe it would be easier if he was. Then all the parts would be connected.

The demon once told him that his soul was broken. So badly broken that when his birth parents made a deal to bring him back, Silas had to substitute parts of human with hell. Gemin wonders which part is greater. Hell, or human?

The little boy stumbles onto the main streets of Beacon Hills, skirting around the cold yellow light that occasionally dots his path. He knows his way home from here. Remembers running them during fevers and before he and Abigail moved in with John. Three blocks this way. Turn right. Two blocks there. Cut through Missy Park's backyard (or, maybe go around. He doesn't have the energy to hop fences right now. He'd probably fall and break his neck) onto the next street. Four houses down and he would be home. He's so close.

If anything, the rain gets colder. And heavier. It is beyond temping to dump his backpack (three dollars, the remains of a bag of chips, three AA batteries and some extra clothes) just to lighten the load, but he suspects it won't help as much as he'd want.

One of the street lights flicker. Maybe. Just maybe.

Genim stares at it, eyes narrowed. It could just be the weather. But the creep of adrenalin tingles in his fingertips and he's already shoving his power down further. Masking it. He doesn't look around - it wouldn't help in the dark - instead takes off jogging down the street. Three blocks, a right, two blocks. A detour around Missy Park's property (her neighbor has a gate now. How convenient) and he's breathing hard, gasping for air that isn't clogged with water (there's none). Genim is running flat out by the time he hits pavement again, sprinting towards that one house with a police cruiser parked in front. Porch light on. Home.

And then it's real. He been gone for two years. And now he's back.

Does John still care? Genim doesn't want to think that the man would give up on him, but... it has been a year since he has been able to send any sort of letter. Didnt dare call. Does John think he's dead?

Possibly. Probably.

Genim stops on the steps. Almost stops breathing. Raises a fist and lowers it. Lifts shaky fingers to touch the scars carved into his face. Can he even be Stiles again? He's spent so long as just Genim - a Genim with only the demon for company - that he's almost forgotten who Stiles grew into. Four years in a persona, four years thinking that he was going to stay that way forever, and in half the time it took to build, that person is gone.

He brings his fist up and knocks.

* * *

**AN: This is not where I was planning on leaving this, but it seemed a good place to end the chapter. Meaning, you get at least one more chapter before season 1 starts. Possibly two. We'll see how that goes.**


	19. Disjoint

**Sorry for the long wait. Real life (moving, school, other) got in the way and this chapter was a bitch. The ending is a little abrupt, but ch20 will be season 1.**

* * *

The wood is wet, paint rough against his knuckles, and maybe it's the cold, but his hand feels like invisible splinters broke off and lodged deep in his skin. He skitters away from the glaring yellow light only to hit a wall of rain. Frozen. Cold. He ducks forwards again, tripping over the welcome mat and falling into the door with a thump. He stays there. Just, leans, sort of, not really supporting himself as his mind slips from panicked awareness to drained not-asleep. Perhaps that is why he doesn't hear the lock click or the latch twist open. Doesn't notice until he's tilting and the door is moving and he startles back awake, flinging himself away and crashing down the two steps into the driveway.

Genim lands in a puddle, rain drumming down, bathed in a distorted rectangle of artificial light. He blinks upwards in confusion at the figure silhouetted in the doorway. Names flit past his tongue, none coming out until recognition blurs tired-haggard-old into familiar features. Then he's spilling forward in a tangle of ten-year-old limbs and sodden clothing, reaching, yearning, crying, "Dad!" and never letting go again. He is never letting go. It doesn't matter what happens, he is never leaving ever again.

Not ever.

He is barely aware of arms wrapping around him tight - too tight - or of being dragged inside, door kicked shut. Genim just cries his relief, welcome, pain, exhaustion into a warm shoulder that smells of home, muttering a continuous stream of, "Daddy Daddy Daddy" between choked sobs. Fistfuls of faded shirt clutched in desperate fingers. Legs wrapped around his dad's waist. One broad hand between his shoulders, the other arm curled around his back.

They lay on the floor for several long, indescribably happy minutes before the general warmth of the house sets Stiles shivering, muscles spasming in a futile attempt to entice heat into the bloodstream. John stands without letting go of his son, protesting back be-damned, and staggers into the downstairs bathroom. One handed, he flips the water on cool. Melissa's voice in the back of his head - he should call her, let her know Stiles is home. Fuck. Stiles is home - says that Stiles needs to be warmed up slowly. The only problem with that is letting go, getting Stiles to let go long enough to get him out of the cold clothes. Or should he just let Stiles warm us clothes and all? He should call Melissa. Call the sheriff. Call...someone.

* * *

They call an interview. John is a little fuzzy on the why, too wrapped up in _StilesishomeStilesishomeStilesishome _ to really care about all the official stuff. He should care about the official stuff. Because Stiles isn't just Stiles, and Abigail wasn't Abigail and whoever the fuck Silas is or was probably plays a role in that as well. But Stiles is home and if anyone tries to take him, John is going to shoot them.

He just got his son back. He is not letting social services drag him off into the unknowns (and the disturbing knowns) of foster care. John adopted his boy legally. Stiles is _his._

They still call an interview.

It isn't a complete disaster despite what some people want to say. John has attended most of Stiles' therapy appointments. When the boy doesn't want to talk about something, he doesn't. And if he's pushed, well, he pushes back. Usually with biting, kicking, screaming and or running away. Those were fun times. Of course, it was after switching doctors that is came out that the previous doctor was not as nice to some of his child-patients as he should be. Perhaps a little too nice, rather. John had never wanted to shoot someone more (ignoring Silas, but that was a different sort of murderous intent).

They bring Stiles into one of the conference rooms in the police station. They meaning the FBI case agent and a child psychologist, but not the one Stiles worked with for his ADHD. They want an outside opinion. They two adults sit on one side of the table, Stiles on the other, and John lurks near the door, unwilling to let his son out of his sight. He doesn't trust these people not to try and take him away. The sheriff can be seen through his office window, supposedly doing paperwork. John suspects he's keeping an eye on everything so that no one gets hurt.

It starts simple. A greeting. "Good morning." The agent, Patricia Mirro, doesn't truly speak down to the boy. Her tone does hold the slightly elongated vowels that many adults use with children, but it seems more reflex than intentional. Stiles narrows his eyes. In all the time John has known him, Stiles has hated baby talk with a burning passion. Usually, the perpetrator received a lecture on the benefits of talking to children like actual human being so as to improve their vocabulary, grammar, and general pronunciation. He doesn't, this time. John can see the words bubbling behind his flattened mouth.

"Hi," the ten-year-old replies, voice flat. Annoyed. He'd rather be home or with Scott or even at school - John hasn't explained yet that he's likely going to get held back. Maybe John can talk the school into a placement test? He knows the boy is smart, likely could have skipped grades two years ago. A while of not actively learning doesn't mean that he's incapable of keeping up. Catching up. Hell, excelling and skipping into higher grades than he should be in at ten anyway.

It's after the greetings that things start going downhill.

"Our records state that your real name is not 'Stiles,'" Mirro says. She's looking at a folder and not at Stiles. Doesn't see the way his mouth flattens and his eyebrows dip down. The psychologist does and makes a note. "Do you know your real name?"

Teeth snapping with every hard consonant, Stiles replies, "My legal name is Stiles Przemyslaw Stilinski. That was the name on the documents when Dad adopted me. That is the name on my school records. That is the name I have gone by for the last four years." It comes across loud and clear that he thinks Agent Mirro is an idiot. The psychologist makes another note.

Agent Mirro nods briefly. "Then what are these other names? Genim Rite; Peter Cruz; Antonin Blanc; James Fox; Harry Johnson - there are quite a few names associated with the child travelling with Abigail Rite. Your mother's name stays similar, but yours bounces all over the place. Why is that?"

No answer. Stiles makes grabby hands at the pad the psychologist is making notes on. The man flips a few pieces of paper over and tears out a sheet. He hands it over to the boy with a pencil. Stiles immediately begins scribbling on one corner.

"Very well. There are no records of your birth to Abigail Rite. Is she your biological mother?

"No." The response startles them. Of the questions Mirro and the psychologist thought he might not answer, that one was fairly high on the list. John, likewise, is surprised, but only because of how calm Stiles sounds. "My birth parents were teenagers, underage. They died three days after I was born. Silas found me and brought me to mom." Amber eyes glance up, mischievous glimmer evident. "What? I know that I'm adopted. It's not exactly a secret."

The scribble takes on form. The side of a face, imperfectly rendered. Ear, hair, neck, shoulder.

"Do you know the names of your birth parents?"

"Nope." This, quite possibly, is a lie. Stiles often knows things he shouldn't. Even if Silas and Abigail tried to keep the information from him, it is beyond likely that he found out anyway. Then again, from the few times John met Silas, he can't see the man keeping possibly upsetting information from Stiles. Especially if Abigail didn't want him to know. John mentally translates the answer to: possible, but there is no way Stiles will tell.

"Okay. What do you know of Jonas Smart?"

"Who?"

"Silas Christainsen. His real name is Jonas Smart."

Stiles exaggerates his understanding, nodding several times in quick succession, eyes wide and mouth open. "Oh yeah. Well, I didn't know his name was Jonas Smart. Fact, never knew a Jonas Smart. I only knew Silas. Jonas doesn't seem - "

The station erupts like a kicked wasp nest. Phones ring. Officers leap up from desks with panicked, ashen faces. Sirens roar up from outside. A firetruck barrels down main too fast to be safe.

_Everyone_ converges on the Hale house.

Laura Hale, ashen and trembling, somehow manages to keep a firm hold on her little brother. Derek is inconsolable, struggling to get at the house, get away from the house, face twisted into a mask of _painhorrorgriefshockhateterror._

Genim crawls out of his father's cruiser. His soul sings in the presence of such destruction. But there are two baby wolves, packless, a puppy alpha left to console an out of control beta. And hunters. The ground reeks of mountain ash. He flares his magic, ignores the fear of demons sensing his location, and presses his will on the flames, smothering them. The firefighters look a little confused as to how easily the fire goes out.

Of the people inside, only Peter Hale is alive - badly burned and unconscious, but alive.


	20. SEQUEL

**Guess What! The sequel to ViSC is now up!**

**(A)Morality**

**Summary:** The Hale House Fire was six years ago. Stiles Stiliniski returned to Beacon Hills six years ago. Things have been quiet since then, but that is about to change.

Sneak Peak:

_The alpha's howl cuts through the night. Loud. Feral. Uncaring if the humans - the __police__. Shit the police! - hear. Humans and hunters and the police._


End file.
